known the Major a long time. He isn't the man to protect a red-handed
murderer."

"Aw, bah! How do you know I won't? How do you know he's a murderer?
You make me sick!" declared the Major hotly. Breslin was an honest,
well-meaning farmer; the Major was furious to find such a man allied
with Foy's foes--certain sign that other decent blockheads would do
likewise. "Matt Lisner tells you Kit Foy is a murderer and you believe
him implicitly: Matt Lisner tells you I'm a liar--but you stumble at
that. Why? Because you think about me--that's why! Why don't you try
that plan about Foy--thinking?"

"But Foy's run away," stammered Breslin, disconcerted.

"Run away, hell! He's not here, you mean. According to your precious
story, Foy was leaving before Marr was killed--or before you say Marr
was killed. Why don't you look for him with the Bar Cross round-up?
There's where he started for, you say?"

"I wired up and had a trusty man go out there quietly at once. He's
staying there still--quietly," said the sheriff. "Foy isn't there--and
the Bar Cross hasn't heard of the killing yet. It won't do, Major.
Foy's run away."

John Wesley Pringle, limp, slack, and rumpled in his chair, yawned,
stretching his arms wide.

"This man Foy," he ventured amiably, "if he really run away, he done a
wise little stunt for himself, I think. Because every little ever and
anon, thin scraps of talk float in from your cookfire in the yard--and