In the heart of young Beaudry a dull premonition of evil stirred. His
hand fell limply. Why had this man come out of the dead past to seek
him? His panic-stricken eyes clung as though fascinated to those of
Ryan.

"Do you mean . . . that you were a rustler?"

Ryan looked full at him. "You've said it. I was a wild young colt
thim days, full of the divil and all. But remimber this. I held no
grudge at Jack Beaudry. That's what he was elected for--to put me and
my sort out of business. Why should I hate him because he was man
enough to do it?"

"That's not what some of your friends thought."

"You're right, worse luck. I was out on the range when it happened.
I'll say this for Hal Rutherford. He was full of bad whiskey when your
father was murdered. . . . But that ended it for me. I broke with the
Huerfano gang outfit and I've run straight iver since."

"Why have you come to me? What do you want?" asked the young lawyer,
his throat dry.

"I need your help."

"What for? Why should I give it? I don't know you."

"It's not for mysilf that I want it. There's a friend of your father
in trouble. When I saw the sign with your name on it I came in to tell
you."