The

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heart going out to the wretch, so abject was his misery.

      "Mike here says that everything in that letter is true, and that you can prove it," she continued. "Is that so?"

      Involuntarily Caldwell looked toward Stelton for orders, as he had always done, and in those beetling brows and threatening eyes saw a menace of personal injury that indicated his course at once.

      "No, don't look at Mike; look at me," cried Juliet, and Caldwell obediently switched his gaze back. "Are those things true?"

      "Yes, ma'am," said Caldwell without hesitation.

      "You mean to tell me that he was married before?"

      "Yes, ma'am."

      "Where?"

      "In Chicago to a woman by the name of Mary. She was a cousin of mine."

      "Oh, God!" The low cry burst from Juliet's pale lips before she could recover herself, and Stelton lay back in his chair, feeding his unspeakable nature upon the girl's torture.

      "Shall I tell you about it?" Caldwell, seeing his former chief was pleased, now took the initiative.

      "Oh, no, no!" she cried frantically. "I don't want to hear. I never want to hear!"

      For a few moments there was silence in the low, bare room while Juliet recovered herself. Then she said:

      "And about that other thing in the letter. Why are the officers after Bud?"

      "For forgery, ma'am. That is, I mean, they would be after him if they knew everything." A cunning smirk crossed Smithy's countenance.

      "Why don't they know everything?" asked the girl.

      "Because I haven't told 'em," was the reply.

      "And so you blackmailed him under threat of telling, did you?"

      "Well, he seemed to be willin'," countered Smithy evasively, "or he wouldn't have paid."

      "Why did you write me that letter, Caldwell?"

      "The boss here told me to," motioning toward Stelton.

      "What reason did he give for telling you?"

      Caldwell did not like this question. He turned and twisted in his seat without replying, and shot a quick glance at Stelton, uncertain what reply

      Stelton was relishing the fear and anxiety of his tool and watched to see which way the other's cowardice would lead him. He was quite unprepared for the answer that came.

      "It is a long worm that has no turning," someone has remarked, and Caldwell had reached his length. The pure cruelty of Stelton's conduct revolted him, and now, sure that Stelton could do him no harm because of his tied hands, he took a vicious dig at his former leader.

      "He wanted to marry you himself," he said, "and offered me a hundred dollars to write you that letter."

      Stelton sat for a moment open-mouthed at the temerity of his subordinate and then leaped up with a roar like the bellow of a bull.

      Juliet pounded hastily on the floor, and the sheepmen appeared just as Stelton fetched Caldwell a kick that sent him half-way across the room.

      "Take them both away," ordered the girl, suddenly feeling faint and ill after the mental and physical struggle of the interview.

      When the two had gone she sank back in her chair and faced the awful facts that these men had given her.

      "Bud! Bud! My lover!" she cried brokenly to herself. "I want you, I need you now to tell me it is all a lie!"

      She remained for several minutes sunk in a kind of torpor. Then, as though she had suddenly arrived at some great decision, she rose slowly, but determinedly, and left the room. Finding one of the men, she ordered her horse saddled and retired to change her clothes.

      Her mother came in and asked if she were going riding alone.

      "Yes, mother," replied the girl quietly. "I am going to Bud and find out the truth about him. I cannot live like this any longer. I shall go crazy or kill myself. But I promise you this, that I will find father and bring him home to you."

      The eyes of Martha Bissell clouded with long-suppressed tears.

      "God bless you, Juliet," she said. "I can't live without him any longer."

      CHAPTER XXII

      THE USE OF PHOTOGRAPHY

      It was noon and the great column of parched animals and hot, dusty men had come to a halt under their alkali cloud beside a little stream. The foot-weary sheep and cattle, without the usual preliminaries, lay down where they stood, relieved for once from the incessant nipping of the dogs and proddings of the men.

      Sims, walking among the sheep with down-drawn brows, noted their condition, how gaunt they were, how dirty and weary, and shook his head in commiseration. Had he but known it he was as gaunt and worn-looking as the weakest of them. Returning to where Larkin had dropped in the shade of the cook-wagon, he said:

      "We've got to make it to-night if the Old Boy himself is in the way."

      Larkin realized the seriousness of the situation. Water and feed were plentiful, but owing to the hurry of the drive the animals were starving on their feet. Less than five miles away was the Gray Bull River, the goal of their march. Once across that and they would be out of the Bar T range and free to continue north, for the next ranch-owner had gone in for sheep himself (one of the first to see the handwriting on the wall), and had gladly granted Larkin's flocks a passage across his range.

      "What I can't understand is where all those cow-punchers are," continued Sims. "I'm plenty sure they wouldn't let us through if we was within a foot of the river, they're that cussed."

      He had hardly got the words out of his mouth when from ahead of the herd appeared a horseman at a hard gallop, quirting his pony at every few jumps.

      Pulling the animal back on its haunches at the cook-wagon, the rider vaulted out of the saddle and was blurting out his story almost before he had touched the ground.

      "Up ahead there!" he gasped. "Cow-punchers! Looks like a hundred of 'em. I seen 'em from a butte. I 'low they've dug fifty pits and they've stuck sharp stakes into the ground pointed this way. They're ready fer us, an' don't yuh ferget it."

      Sims and Larkin looked at each other without speaking. Now it was plain that the punchers had had plenty of reason for not molesting them; they had been preparing a surprise.

      "An' that ain't all, boss," went on the rider. "I took a slant through my glasses, and what d'yuh suppose I seen? There, as big as life, was old Beef Bissell an' Red Tarken, and a lot more o' them cowmen. How they ever got there I dunno, but it's worth figurin' out of a cold winter's evenin'."

      This information came as a knockdown. The two men questioned their informant closely, unable to credit their ears, but the man described the ranch-owners so accurately that there was no room left for doubt.

      "Then what's become o' Jimmie Welsh and his nine men?" asked Sims wonderingly.

      "Mebbe they're captured; but I couldn't see anythin' of 'em."

      "Nope," said Bud slowly, "they aren't captured. They're dead. I know Jimmie and his men, and I picked them for that job because I knew how they would act. Poor boys! If I get through here alive I'll put a monument where they died."

      He ceased speaking, and a sudden silence descended on all the company, for the other men had been listening to this report. Each man's thoughts in that one instant were with Jimmie and his nine men in their last extremity at Welsh's Butte, although the site of the tragedy was as yet unknown to them.

      "What about the lay of the country?" Sims finally asked of the scout.

      "Dead ahead is the big ford, but that is what the punchers have protected. I could see that either up or down from the ford the water's deep, because there ain't no bottoms there--the bank's right on top of the river."

      "Where is the next nearest ford?"

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