Yet Matson was puzzled. McCoy had been the leader of the group. There could be no doubt about that. His was far and away the strongest personality. And McCoy usually thought straight. He did not muddle his brain with false reasoning. How, then, had he come to do such a thing? As the sheriff sat by the campfire at the round-up later, it was even more difficult to think of this clean, level-eyed boss of the rodeo as an ambusher by night. The whole record of the man rose up to give the lie to the story that he had ridden out to kill his foe in the dark. While Sam Yerby entertained the boys with one of his trail songs, Matson’s mind was going over the facts he had gathered. “Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies, It’s your misfortune and none of my own. Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies, For you know Wyoming will be your new home.” Sam looked around carefully, selected a flat rock at the edge of the fire, and splashed the centre of it accurately with tobacco juice. Give him a chew of tobacco as a weapon and the Texan was the champion shot of Wyoming. His singsong voice took up the next stanza: “Oh, you’ll be soup for Uncle Sam’s Injuns! ‘It’s beef, heap beef!’ I hear them cry. Git along, git along, git along, little dogies, You’re going to be beef steers by and by.” Matson did not listen to the song. He was no longer thinking of McCoy. From the shadow where he lounged his narrowed eyes watched Yerby intently. He had not moved a muscle of his big body, but every nerve had suddenly grown taut. For he guessed now who the sixth man was that had ridden on the sheep raid. Sam’s habit of selecting a rock target for his tobacco juice had betrayed him. CHAPTER XVI MATSON MAKES HIS GATHER LIKE wildfire the news spread through western Wyoming that Tait and Gilroy had been shot down in their sheep wagon by night raiders. Soon there was no ranch so deep-hidden in the hills, no herder’s camp so remote that the story had not been carried there. The tale was a nine-days’ wonder, a sensation that gave zest to colourless lives. The identity of the raiders was a mystery that promised much pleasant gossip. Furtive whispers of names began to be heard. That of Falkner was mentioned first. He had made threats against Tait, and he was known to be quarrelsome and vindictive. Then the murmured gossip took up the name of McCoy, added shortly to it those of Cole and Silcott. It was known that all four of the suspected men had been absent from the round-up the night of the killing. Two of them were enemies of Tait, the others had been mixed up in the cattle-sheep feud. By their own statements they had all been together during the hours when the raid took place.