Ranson smiled. "I hope not, too," he said. "No, we've not quarrelled-
-yet," he added.

Carr still lingered. "Cahill is like to be a very important witness
for the other side--"

"I doubt it," said Ranson, easily. "Cahill's a close-mouthed chap,
but when he does talk he talks to the point and he'll tell the truth.
That can't hurt us."

As Cahill crossed the parade-ground from Captain Carr's quarters on
his way to Ranson's hut his brain was crowded swiftly with doubts,
memories, and resolves. For him the interview held no alarms. He had
no misgivings as to its outcome. For his daughter's sake he was
determined that he himself must not be disgraced in her eyes and that
to that end Ranson must be sacrificed. It was to make a lady of her,
as he understood what a lady should be, that on six moonlit raids he
had ventured forth in his red mask and robbed the Kiowa stage. That
there were others who roamed abroad in the disguise of the Red Rider
he was well aware. There were nights the stage was held up when he
was innocently busy behind his counter in touch with the whole
garrison. Of these nights he made much. They were alibis furnished by
his rivals. They served to keep suspicion from himself, and he,
working for the same object, was indefatigable in proclaiming that
all the depredations of the Red Rider showed the handiwork of one and
the same individual.

"He comes from Kiowa of course," he would point out. "Some feller who
lives where the stage starts, and knows when the passengers carry
money. You don't hear of him holding up a stage full of recruits or