"Hello," I greeted. "Steele, shake hands with Jim Hoden."

"Hello," replied Steele slowly. "Say, I reckon I know Hoden."

"Nit. Not this one. He's the old Hoden. He used to own the Hope So
saloon. It was on the square when he ran it. Maybe he'll get it back
pretty soon. Hope so!"

I laughed at my execrable pun. Steele leaned against the counter, his
gray glance studying the man I had so oddly introduced.

Hoden in one flash associated the Ranger with me--a relation he had not
dreamed of. Then, whether from shock or hope or fear I know not, he
appeared about to faint.

"Hoden, do you know who's boss of this secret gang of rustlers
hereabouts?" asked Steele bluntly.

It was characteristic of him to come sharp to the point. His voice,
something deep, easy, cool about him, seemed to steady Hoden.

"No," replied Hoden.

"Does anybody know?" went on Steele.

"Wal, I reckon there's not one honest native of Pecos who _knows_."

"But you have your suspicions?"

"We have."