Rutter stopped short to stare at him. Then he considered the question, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Don’t know. Me, o’ course. An’ Curly Gonzales over Crow Point way. Lamson--that crazy puncher on the D-5--an’ Slim Nichols on the Flyin’ A. All I think of. Why?” The Ranger hesitated. Knowing Rutter’s bitterness toward Dell Spreen, he wondered if the dour ranchman could be made to believe his own theory: that Spreen had not, could not have, committed the murder. Wondered, too, if Rutter would be silent about the theory. “Spreen says he never killed Carson,” he said slowly. “Yeh. An’ what?” “An’ if he did--well, I don’t know how he done it!” “What’re yuh drivin’ at? Yuh got the name o’ bein’ level-headed, Kid, but--what’re yuh drivin’ at?” “How could a little fella--littler’n me--shoot Carson, restin’ his gun in a crotch near as high as he could reach?” Scowling, Simeon Rutter considered this problem. “That _was_ a high crotch--one that we found his tracks under,” he admitted. “But, hell! He was sittin’ on a hawss, or else standin’ on somethin’. Not good enough, Kid! By God, not half good enough to make me believe Dell Spreen never shot old Eph Carson from hidin’. O’ course he denies it! ’Spect him to own right up?” “Yeh. Course, he’d say he never. But I been thinkin’. Wasn’t no hawss-tracks under the crotch. Nothin’ to stand on. Nothin’ we could see, anyhow. So’ wondered who’d be tall enough to shoot out o’ that crotch, standin’ on the sand. An’ too----” He hesitated for an instant before he decided to tell of the morning. “An’, too, somebody bushwhacked me, out at the Castle, today!” “Bushwhacked yuh! What for? Who’d be a-bushwhackin’ yuh?” “Don’t know. Fella on a dun. Good shot, too. Purty good, that is.” “Here!” cried Rutter suddenly. “Too much funny business about this. I want to see that place ag’in. Git yo’ hawss, Kid. Let’s take a _pasear_ out to the Castle an’ look around.” He went swiftly down to the corral and got the lariat from his saddle. The black gelding retreated to a corner, snorting, whirling. Rutter sent the loop spinning over its head and hauled the animal to him by sheer brute force. “So dam’ many hawsses none gits rid enough!” he rumbled irritably. “Wilder’n antelope, all of ’em.” He saddled swiftly and swung up. Ware’s Kid was already mounted. They turned past the front veranda and Rutter waved to his daughter, who had come outside again. He seemed another person when near her. The grim shell of him cracked and a tenderness odd in a man so apparently harsh-grained showed for a moment. “Goin’ out to El Castillo!” he shouted at the girl. “Back when I git back, Baby.” * * * * *