your breakfast here, I couldn't begin to work just at once. I was
thinking about--something else. Everyone was talking of you--your
arrest, and I couldn't settle down to take account of stock." She
threw a look at Ranson which asked for his sympathy. "But when I did
start I began with the ponchos and the red kerchiefs, and then I
found out something." Cahill was regarding his daughter in strange
distress, but Ranson appeared indifferent to her words, and intent
only on the light and beauty in her face. But he asked, smiling, "And
that was?"

"You see," continued Miss Cahill, eagerly, "I always keep a dozen of
each article, and as each one is sold I check it off in my day-book.
Yesterday Mrs. Bolland bought a poncho for the colonel. That left
eleven ponchos. Then a few minutes later I gave Lightfoot a red
kerchief for his squaw. That left eleven kerchiefs."

"Stop!" cried Ranson. "Miss Cahill," he began, severely, "I hope you
do not mean to throw suspicion on the wife of my respected colonel,
or on Mrs. Lightfoot, 'the Prairie Flower.' Those ladies are my
personal friends; I refuse to believe them guilty. And have you ever
seen Mrs. Bolland on horseback? You wrong her. It is impossible."

"Please," begged Miss Cahill, "please let me explain. When you went
to hold up the stage you took a poncho and a kerchief. That should
have left ten of each. But when I counted them this morning there
were nine red kerchiefs and nine ponchos."

Ranson slapped his knee sharply. "Good!" he said. "That is
interesting."