A few minutes later, as they were sitting down to a hastily prepared supper, Gowan appeared with the second load from the lower camp. Blake and Ashton sprang up to loosen the packs of the sweating, panting horses. The puncher swung down from his saddle, not to a.s.sist them, but to remonstrate with Isobel.

"Been expecting to meet you, all the way up, Miss Chuckie," he said.

"Ain't you staying too late? You won't get home before long after dark."

"Mrs. Blake and I are not going down tonight, Kid," replied the girl, and she explained the change of plans.

Gowan listened attentively, though without commenting either by look or word. When she had quite finished, he asked a single question: "Think your Daddy won't mind, Miss Chuckie?"

"He will understand that we simply can't leave here until Lafe and--Mr. Blake are safe up out of the canon."

"All right. You're the boss," he acquiesced. "Just write out a list of what you want. I'll take all the hawsses down to the waterhole, and go on to the ranch. You can look for me back at sunup. The moon rises between three and four."

"Genevieve, will you make out the list? Sit down and eat, Kid."

"Well, just a snack, Miss Chuckie. Wouldn't stop for that if the hawsses didn't know the trail well enough to go down in the dark."

"Have you seen any sign of the murderer?" inquired Ashton.

Gowan drained the cup of scalding hot coffee handed to him by Isobel, and answered jeeringly: "Don't worry, Tenderfoot. He won't try to get you tonight. If he came back today, he saw me around. If he comes back tonight, he won't think of climbing High Mesa to look for you."

Blake came to the puncher with a list written by himself and his wife on a leaf from his fieldbook. Gowan folded it in his hatband, washed down the last mouthful of bread and ham that he had been bolting, and went to shift his saddle to Isobel's pony, the youngest and freshest of the horses. In two minutes he was riding away down the ridge, willingly followed by the four other horses. They knew as well as he that they were returning to the waterhole.

As the campers again sat down to their supper Isobel paused with the coffeepot upraised. "Genevieve," she inquired, "did you put cream on the list?"

"Why, no, my dear. It did not occur to me."

"Nor may it to Yuki. He will be sure to send eggs and b.u.t.ter, but unless he thinks to save tonight's cream--I'll run and tell Kid."

Ashton sprang up ahead of her. "I'll catch him," he said, and sprinted down the ridge.

Racing around a thicket of scrub oak, he caught sight of Gowan more than an eighth of a mile ahead. He whistled repeatedly. At last Gowan twisted about in the saddle, and drew rein. He did not turn back, but made Ashton come all the way to him.

"Well, what's wanted?" he demanded.

"Cream," panted Ashton. "Miss Chuckie says--tell Yuki."

"Sh.o.r.e pop, I'll bring all there is," replied Gowan. Ashton started back. "Hold on," said the puncher. "I want to say something to you, and here's the chance."

"What is it?"

"About him. I want you to keep a mighty close watch tonight."

"But you said that the murderer would not--"

"_Bah!_ What does he count in this deal? It's this engineer. I've been chewing it over all afternoon. Miss Chuckie is as innocent and trusting as a lamb, spite of her winterings in Denver, and she's plumb locoed over him, reading so much about him in the reports."

"Still, it does not necessarily follow--"

"Don't it, though!" broke in the puncher. "Guess you didn't find it any funnier than I did seeing her hanging onto his shoulder."

"Curse him!" cried Ashton, his jealousy flaring at the remembrance.

"Now you're talking!" approved Gowan. "That shows you like her like I do. You're not going to stand for her losing her fortune."

"Her fortune?"

"By his flooding us off our range."

"Ah--as for that, I have been thinking it over. She told me Mr.

Knowles owns five sections. If water is put on them--Western Colorado fruit lands are very valuable, you know."

"That's a lie. Water can't make five sections worth a range like ours. But supposing it could--" the puncher leaned towards Ashton, his eyes glaring with the cold malignancy of a striking rattlesnake's--"supposing it could, how about us letting her lose her good name?"

"Good G.o.d!" gasped Ashton. "It can't come to that!"

"Can't it? can't it? Where's your eyes? And him a married man! The--"

Gowan cursed horribly.

"You really believe it!" cried Ashton, convinced by the other's outburst.

"Believe it? I know it!" declared Gowan. "If you thought half as much of her as I do--"

"I do!--not half, but a hundred times more!"

"Yes, you do?"

"I swear it! I'd do anything for her!"

"Except save her from him."

"No, no! How can I? Tell me how!"

The puncher bent nearer to the half-frenzied man. "You're going down that gulch with him. Suppose a spike gets knocked out or a rope breaks or a loose rock gets pushed over?"

"G.o.d!" cried Ashton, putting his hands over his eyes. "That would be murder!"

"_Bah!_ You'd make a dog sick! Willing to do anything for her--except save her from him! And nothing to it but just an accident that's just as like as not to happen anyway."

"But--murder!" shudderingly muttered Ashton.

"Murder a skunk," sneered Gowan. "If saving her from him isn't a case of justifiable homicide, what is? Don't you get the idea? Just a likely accident, down there where n.o.body can see."

Ashton dropped his hands, half clenched, to his sides. Beads of cold sweat were gathering and running down his drawn face.

"I can't!" he whispered. "I--I can't!"

"Not if I agree to get out of the way and give you clear running?"

tempted Gowan.