"Well, it doesn't matter now," stammered Ranson; "I'll wait until
Miss Cahill tells you."

"Any complaint about the food?" inquired the post trader.

Ranson laughed nervously. "No, it's not that," he said. He rose, and,
to protect what Miss Cahill evidently wished to remain a secret,
changed the subject. "You see you've lived in these parts so long,
Mr. Cahill," he explained, "and you know so many people, I thought
maybe you could put me on the track or give me some hint as to which
of that Kiowa gang really did rob the paymaster." Ranson was pulling
the cork from the whiskey bottle, and when he asked the question
Cahill pushed his glass from him and shook his head. Ranson looked up
interrogatively and smiled. "You mean you think I did it myself?" he
asked.

"I didn't understand from Captain Carr," the post trader began in
heavy tones, "that it's my opinion you're after. He said I might be
wanted to testify who was present last night in my store."

"Certainly, that's all we want," Ranson answered, genially. "I only
thought you might give me a friendly pointer or two on the outside.
And, of course, if it's your opinion I did the deed we certainly
don't want your opinion. But that needn't prevent your taking a drink
with me, need it? Don't be afraid. I'm not trying to corrupt you. And
I'm not trying to poison a witness for the other fellows, either.
Help yourself."

Cahill stretched out his left hand. His right remained hidden in the