They exchanged the casual gossip of the neighbourhood. Presently he steered the talk in the direction he wanted. “Mac is up at the round-up, I reckon.” “Yes. He drove a bunch of cattle down last night.” “So? Any of the boys with him?” “Three of them. They stayed in the bunk house.” “I’ve been wanting to see Art Philips. Was he one of them?” “No. Young Silcott and Jack Cole and Hal Falkner.” “Went back this morning, did they?” asked Matson casually. He gave rather the impression that he was making conversation to pass the time. “Right after breakfast.” “Jack Cole was talking about trading me a Winchester. Don’t suppose he had it with him.” “No. Hal Falkner had one. A deer had been seen near camp, and he brought it on the chance he might see it again.” “I like a .30-30 for deer myself. Didn’t happen to notice what Falkner carried?” Mrs. Stovall shook her head. “A gun is a gun to me.” “When it comes to guns I reckon a man and a woman are made different. I never see one without wanting to look it over. Mac was going to show me one of his next time I came up to the ranch. I don’t suppose——” “All his guns are in that little room off the living room, as Mrs. McCoy calls the parlour. Go in and look ’em over if you like.” The sheriff thanked her and availed himself of the chance. When he came out he found Mrs. Stovall clearing off the table. “Expect the boys were glad to come down and eat a home-cooked meal at a real table. I’ll bet they were so frolicsome at getting away from camp that they kept you up all hours of the night.” “They woke me when they first came, but I soon fell asleep. Likely they were tired and turned right in.” “Sounds reasonable. Well, I’ll be moving along, Mrs. Stovall. Much obliged for that peach cobbler like Mother used to make.” On his way to the stable Matson dropped in at the bunk house. He made the discovery that at least one of McCoy’s guests had lain on top of the blankets and not under them. Nor had he taken the trouble to remove his boots. The mud stains of the heels were plainly printed on the wool. The officer smiled. “Just made a bluff of lying down; figured it wasn’t worth while taking off his boots for a few minutes. I’ll bet that was Falkner. He’s a roughneck, anyhow.” Matson rode back to the Three Pines, and from there followed the trail of the two horses that had turned into the hills at this point. By the middle of the afternoon it brought him to the Circle B R, a ranch which nestled at the foot of the big peaks in a little mountain park. It took no clairvoyant to see that Mrs. Rogers was not glad to see him. Unless her face libelled her, she had been weeping. Her eyes flew a flag of alarm as soon as they fell upon him. “G’afternoon, Mrs. Rogers. Brad home?” “No. He’s at the round-up.” “Gone back, has he?” She considered a moment before a reluctant “Yes” fell from her lips. “Reckon I’ll ride over to the camp. Is it still at the foot of the Flat Tops?”