"Over the trail? Across the divide?"

"Yes."

"Were you in the raid this morning?"

"What raid? I don't know of any raid."

He knew she was lying, but he only said, "When did you leave home?"

"Three days ago."

"Where have you been?"

"In camp."

"Where?"

She pointed up the stream.

"How long have you been acquainted with this man Busby?"

Here he struck upon something stubborn and hard in the girl's nature.

She refused to reply.

"When were you over here last?"

A warning word from Busby denoted that he understood the course of the ranger's questioning and was anxious to strengthen her resistance.

Hanscom had several hours in which to ponder, and soon arrived at a fairly accurate understanding of the whole situation. He remembered vaguely the report of a row between Watson and Busby, and he was aware of the reckless cruelty of the dead man. It might be that in revenge for some savagery on his part, some graceless act toward Rita, this moody, half-insane youth had crept upon the rancher and killed him.

He turned to young Kitsong. "I haven't seen you lately. Where have you been?"

"Over on the Porcupine."

"Working on Gonzales's ranch?"

"Yes, part of the time."

"Does your father know you are back in the valley?"

"No--yes, he does, too!"

"You fired that shot that killed the horse, didn't you?"

Young Kitsong betrayed anxiety. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Which of you rode the blaze-faced sorrel?"

In spite of himself the boy glanced quickly at the girl, who shook her head.

Hanscom addressed himself to her. "Senorita, which of your friends rode the blaze-faced sorrel?"

Her head dropped in silent refusal to answer.

"Oh, well," said the ranger, "we'll find out in the course of time. My eyesight is pretty keen, and I can swear that it was the man on the sorrel horse that fired the shot that stopped the Kauffman team. Now one or the other of you will have to answer to that charge." His voice took on a sterner note. "What were you doing on Watson's porch last Sat.u.r.day?"

The girl started and flushed. "I wasn't on his porch."

"Oh yes, you were! You didn't know you left your footprints in some flour on the floor, did you?"

Her glance was directed involuntarily toward her feet, as if in guilty surprise. It was a slight but convincing evidence to the ranger, who went on:

"Who was with you--Busby or Henry?"

"n.o.body was with me. I wasn't there. I haven't been in the valley before for weeks."

"You didn't go there alone. You wouldn't dare to go alone in the night, and the man who was with you killed Watson."

She sat up with a gasp, and young Kitsong stared. Their surprise was too genuine to be a.s.sumed. "What's that you say? Watson killed?"

"Yes. Watson was shot Monday night. Didn't you know that? Where have you been that you haven't heard of it?"

Young Kitsong was all readiness to answer now. "We've been up in the hills. We have a camp up there."

"Oh," said Hanscom, "kind of a robbers' den, eh? Has Busby been with you?"

"Sure thing. We've all been fishing and hunting--" Here he stopped suddenly, for to admit that he had been hunting out of season was to lay himself liable to arrest as a poacher on the forest. He went on: "We all came down here together."

"What were you doing chasing that team? What was the game in that?"

"Well, he shot at us first," answered the boy.

And Busby shouted from his position in the corner on the floor, "Shut up, you fool!"

The ranger smiled. "Oh, it's got to all come out, Busby. I saw the man on the sorrel horse fire that shot--don't forget that. And I know who made the tracks in the flour. But I am beginning to wonder if you had anything to do with warning the Kauffmans to get out."

He had indeed come to the end of his questioning, for his captives refused to utter another word, and he himself fell silent, his mind engaged with the intricacies of this problem. It might be that these young dare-devils just happened to meet Kauffman on the road and decided to hold him up. It was possible that they knew nothing of the warnings which had been sent. But in that case, who pushed that final warning under the door? Who let them know of trouble from above?

Dawn was creeping up the valley, and, calling young Kitsong from the doze into which he had fallen, he said: "Now, Henry, I'm going to take this bunch down to the sheriff, and you might as well make up your mind to it first as last. You go out and saddle up while the senorita heats up some more coffee, and we'll get ready and start."

Hanscom was by no means as confident as his voice sounded, and, as the young fellow rose to go, only half expected him to show his face again.

"Well, let him slip," he said to himself. "I'll be safer without him."

Busby spoke up from the floor. "You stay with the game, Hank, and you ride your own horse."

"You bet I'll ride my own horse," Kitsong violently retorted, from the doorway.

The girl, who understood the significance of this controversy, interposed. "I'll ride the sorrel. He's my horse, anyway."