"The horse dealer from St. Louis!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Pan in tremendous relief.

"Blink, I believe you're right. I never saw one of those men before, or the horses either."

"It's Wiggate, son," corroborated Pan's father. "I met him once. He's a broad heavy man with a thin gray chin beard. That's him."

"Aw, h.e.l.l!" exclaimed Blinky, regretfully. "There won't be any fight after all."

The approaching hors.e.m.e.n halted within earshot.

"Hi, there, camp," called the leader, whose appearance tallied with Smith's description.

"h.e.l.lo," replied Pan, striding out.

"Who's boss here?"

"Reckon I am."

"My name's Wiggate," replied the other loudly.

"All right, Mr. Wiggate," returned Pan just as loud voiced. "What's your business?"

"Friendly. Give my word. I want to talk horses."

"Come on up, then."

Whereupon the group of hors.e.m.e.n advanced, and presently rode in under the trees into camp. The foremost was a large man, rather florid, with deep-set eyes and scant gray beard. His skin, sunburned red instead of brown, did not suggest the westerner.

"Are you the younger Smith?" he asked, rather nervously eyeing Pan.

"Yes, sir."

"And you're in charge here?"

Pan nodded shortly. He sensed antagonism at least, in this man's bluff front, but it might not have been animosity.

"Word come to me this morning that you'd trapped a large number of horses," went on Wiggate. "I see that's a fact. It's a wonderful sight. Of course you expect to make a deal for them?"

"Yes. No trading. No percentage. I want cash. They're a shade better stock than you've been buying around Marco. Better gra.s.s here, and they've not been chased lean."

"How many?"

"I don't know. We disagree as to numbers. But I say close to fifteen hundred head."

"Good Lord!" boomed the big man. "It's a haul indeed.... I'll give you our regular price, twelve fifty, delivered in Marco."

"No, thanks," replied Pan.

"Thirteen."

Pan shook his head.

"Well, young man, that's the best offer made so far. What do you want?"

"I'll sell for ten dollars a head, cash, and count and deliver them here tomorrow."

"Sold!" snapped out Wiggate. "I can pay you tomorrow, but it'll take another day to get my men out here."

"Thank you--Mr. Wiggate," replied Pan, suddenly rather halting in speech. "That'll suit us."

"May we pitch camp here?"

"Sure. Get down and come in. Plenty of water and wood. Turn your horses loose. They can't get out."

Pan had to get away then for a while from his father and the exuberant Blinky. How could they forget the dead men over there still unburied?

Pan had read in Wiggate's look and speech and in the faces of his men, that they had been told of the killing, and surely to the discredit of Pan and his followers. Pan vowed he would put Wiggate in possession of the facts. He gave himself some tasks, all the while trying to realize the truth. Fortune had smiled upon him and Blinky. Rich in one drive--at one fell swoop! It was unbelievable. The retrieving of his father's losses, the new ranches in sunny Arizona, comfort and happiness for his mother, for Bobby and Alice--and for Lucy all that any reasonable woman could desire--these beautiful and sweet dreams had become possibilities. All the loneliness and privation of his hard life on the ranges had been made up for in a few short days. Pan's eyes dimmed, and for a moment he was not quite sure of himself.

Later he mingled again with the men round the campfire. Some of the restraint had disappeared, at least in regard to Wiggate and his men toward everybody except Pan. That nettled him and at an opportune moment he confronted the horse buyer.

"How'd you learn about this drive of ours?" he asked, briefly.

"Hardman's men rode in to Marco this morning," replied Wiggate, coldly.

"Ah-uh! And they told a c.o.c.k-and-bull story about what happened out here!" flashed Pan hotly.

"It placed you in a bad light, young man."

"I reckon. Well, if you or any of your outfit or anybody else calls me a horse thief he wants to go for his gun. Do you understand that?"

"It's pretty plain English," replied Wiggate, manifestly concerned.

"And here's some more. Jard Hardman _was_ a horse thief," went on Pan in rising pa.s.sion. "He was a low-down yellow horse thief. He hired men to steal for him. And by G.o.d, he wasn't half as white as the outlaw who killed him!"

"Outlaw? I declare--we--I--Do you mean you're an--" floundered Wiggate. "We understood you killed Hardman."

"h.e.l.l, no!" shouted Blinky, aflame with fury, bursting into the argument. "We was all there. We saw--"

"Blink, you keep out of this till I ask you to talk," ordered Pan.

"Smith, I'd like to hear what he has to say."

"Wiggate, you listen to me first," rejoined Pan, with no lessening his intensity. "There are three dead men across the field, not yet buried.

Hardman, his man Purcell, and the outlaw Mac New. He called himself Hurd. He was one of Hardman's jailers there in Marco. But I knew Hurd as Mac New, back in Montana. I saved him from being hanged."

Pan moistened lips too dry and too hot for his swift utterance, and then he told in stern brevity the true details of that triple killing.

After concluding, with white face and sharp gesture, he indicated to his men that they were to corroborate his statement.

"Mr. Wiggate, it's G.o.d's truth," spoke up Pan's father, earnestly. "It was just retribution. Hardman robbed me years ago."