We reasoned that the men whose guns we had looked into over Rutter's
body and those who robbed the paymaster on the MacLeod trail were tarred
with the same stick; likewise, that even now two of them ate out of the
same pot with us three times daily. The thing was to prove it.
Personally, the paymaster's trouble was none of my concern; what I
wanted was to get back that ten thousand dollars, or deal those hounds
ten thousand dollars' worth of misery. Not that I wasn't willing to take
a long chance to help Lyn to her own, but I was human enough to remember
that I had a good deal at stake myself. It was a rather depressed
stock-hand, name of Flood, who blew cigarette smoke out over the brow of
Writing-Stone that evening.

Mac finished smoking and ground the stub into the earth with his heel.
For another minute or two he sat there without speaking, absently
flipping pebbles over the bank.

"I reckon we might as well poke along the top to camp," he said at last,
getting to his feet. "I sent that breed back, down there, so we could
talk without having to keep cases on him. This is beginning to look like
a hopeless case, isn't it?"

"Somewhat," I admitted. "I did think that Rutter's description would put
us on the right track when we got there; but I can't see much meaning in
it now. I suppose we'll just have to keep on going it blind."

"We'll have to stay with it while there's any chance," he said
thoughtfully. "But I've been thinking that it might be a good plan to
take a fall out of those two." He jerked his thumb in the direction of
camp. "If we have sized things up right, they'll make some sort of move,