LITMIR.BIZ

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was lovely. Do you mean—"

      "Tell you later," interrupted Eden. "I may be in town this afternoon." He spoke in a louder tone. "I'm glad you came along. I was finding the desert a bit flat when you flivvered in."

      Holley smiled. "Cheer up. I've got something for you. A veritable storehouse of wit and wisdom." He handed over a paper. "This week's issue of the Eldorado Times, damp from the presses. Read about Louie Wong's big trip to San Francisco. All the news that's fit to print."

      Eden took the proffered paper—eight small pages of mingled news and advertisements. He sank into a chair. "Well," he said, "it seems that the Ladies' Aid Supper last Tuesday night was notably successful. Not only that, but the ladies responsible for the affair labored assiduously and deserve much credit."

      "Yes, but the real excitement's inside," remarked Holley. "On page three. There you'll learn that coyotes are getting pretty bad in the valley. A number of people are putting out traps."

      "Under those circumstances," Eden said, "how fortunate that Henry Gratton is caring for Mr. Dickey's chickens during the latter's absence in Los Angeles."

      Holley rose, and stared for a moment down at his tiny newspaper. "And once I worked with Mitchell on the New York Sun," he misquoted sadly. "Don't let Harry Fladgate see that, will you? When Harry knew me I was a newspaper man." He moved off across the room. "By the way, has Madden shown you his collection of firearms?"

      Bob Eden rose, and followed. "Why no—he hasn't."

      "It's rather interesting. But dusty—say, I guess Louie was afraid to touch them. Nearly every one of these guns has a history. See—there's a typewritten card above each one. 'Presented to P.J. Madden by Til Taylor'—Taylor was one of the best sheriffs Oregon ever had. And here—look at this one—it's a beauty. Given to Madden by Bill Tilghman. That gun, my boy, saw action on Front Street in the old Dodge City days."

      "What's the one with all the notches?" Eden asked.

      "Used to belong to Billy the Kid," said Holley. "Ask them about Billy over in New Mexico. And here's one Bat Masterson used to tote. But the star of the collection"—Holley's eyes ran over the wall—"the beauty of the lot—" He turned to Eden. "It isn't there," he said.

      "There's a gun missing?" inquired Eden slowly.

      "Seems to be. One of the first Colts made—a forty-five—it was presented to Madden by Bill Hart, who's staged a lot of pictures round here." He pointed to an open space on the wall. "There's where it used to be," he added, and was moving away.

      Eden caught his coat sleeve. "Wait a minute," he said in a low, tense voice. "Let me get this. A gun missing. And the card's gone, too. You can see where the tacks held it in place."

      "Well, what's all the excitement—" began Holley surprised.

      Eden ran his finger over the wall. "There's no dust where that card should be. What does that mean? That Bill Hart's gun has been removed within the last few days."

      "My boy," said Holley. "What are you talking about—"

      "Hush," warned Eden. The door opened and Madden, followed by Thorn, entered the room. For a moment the millionaire stood, regarding them intently.

      "Good morning, Mr. Holley," he said. "I've got your interview here. You're wiring it to New York, you say?"

      "Yes. I've queried my friend there about it this morning. I know he'll want it."

      "Well, it's nothing startling. I hope you'll mention in the course of it where you got it. That will help to soothe the feelings of the boys I've turned down so often in New York. And you won't change what I've said?"

      "Not a comma," smiled Holley. "I must hurry back to town now. Thank you again, Mr. Madden."

      "That's all right," said Madden. "Glad to help you out."

      Eden followed Holley to the yard. Out of earshot of the house, the editor stopped.

      "You seemed a little het up about that gun. What's doing?"

      "Oh, nothing, I suppose," said Eden. "On the other hand—"

      "What?"

      "Well, Holley, it strikes me that something queer may have happened lately on this ranch."

      Holley stared. "It doesn't sound possible. However, don't keep me in suspense."

      "I've got to. It's a long story, and Madden mustn't see us getting too chummy. I'll come in this afternoon, as I promised."

      Holley climbed into his car. "All right," he said. "I can wait, I guess. See you later, then."

      Eden was sorry to watch Horace Greeley stagger down the dusty road. Somehow the newspaper man brought a warm, human atmosphere to the ranch, an atmosphere that was needed there. But a moment later he was sorry no longer, for a little speck of brown in the distance became a smart roadster, and at its wheel he saw the girl of the Oasis, Paula Wendell.

      He held open the gate, and with a cheery wave of her hand the girl drove past him into the yard.

      "Hello," he said, as she alighted. "I was beginning to fear you weren't coming."

      "I overslept," she explained. "Always do, in this desert country. Have you noticed the air? People who are in a position to know tell me it's like wine."

      "Had a merry breakfast, I suppose?"

      "I certainly did. At the Oasis."

      "You poor child. That coffee."

      "I didn't mind. Will Holley says that Madden's here."

      "Madden? That's right—you do want to see Madden, don't you? Well, come along inside."

      Thorn was alone in the living-room. He regarded the girl with a fishy eye. Not many men could have managed that, but Thorn was different.

      "Thorn," said Eden. "Here's a young woman who wants to see Mr. Madden."

      "I have a letter from him," the girl explained, "offering me the use of the ranch to take some pictures. You may remember—I was here Wednesday night."

      "I remember," said Thorn sourly. "And I regret very much that Mr Madden can not see you. He also asks me to say that unfortunately he must withdraw the permission he gave you in his letter."

      "I'll accept that word from no one but Mr. Madden himself," resumed the girl, and a steely light flamed suddenly in her eyes.

      "I repeat—he will not see you," persisted Thorn.

      The girl sat down. "Tell Mr. Madden his ranch is charming," she said. "Tell him I am seated in a chair in his living-room and that I shall certainly continue to sit here until he comes and speaks to me himself."

      Thorn hesitated a moment, glaring angrily. Then he went out.

      "I say—you're all right," Eden laughed.

      "I aim to be," the girl answered, "and I've been on my own too long to take any nonsense from a mere secretary."

      Madden blustered in. "What is all this—"

      "Mr. Madden," the girl said, rising and smiling with amazing sweetness, "I was sure you'd see me. I have here a letter you wrote me from San Francisco. You recall it, of course."

      Madden took the letter and glanced at it. "Yes, yes—of course. I'm very sorry, Miss Wendell, but since I wrote that certain matters have come up—I have a business deal on—" He glanced at Eden. "In short, it would be most inconvenient for me to have the ranch overrun with picture people at this time. I can't tell you how I regret it."

      The girl's smile vanished. "Very well," she said, "but it means a black mark against me with the company. The people I work for don't accept excuses—only results. I have told them everything was arranged."

      "Well, you were a little premature, weren't you?"

      "I don't see why. I had the word of P.J. Madden. I believed—foolishly, perhaps—the old rumor that the word of Madden was

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