thumb."
Nearing led the way to the front gate, plainly anxious that neither the men at the bunkhouse nor those inside his own dwelling should hear any part of what was to pass. There, in the shadow of the cedars where Alma and Barrett had stood three hours before, the cattleman put his hand on the young man's shoulder and peered again into his face.
"For God's sake, Ed, you don't mean to tell me you suspect me of a plot to murder you!"
"The Mexican was the man who got away that evening in the canyon," Barrett said, stern as judgment, backing out from under Nearing's hand. "You were more interested that day in seeing the thieves get away than stopped. Now this one comes openly into camp today with the avowed intention of killing me. What kind of a compact have you got with these rustlers, Senator Nearing? What hold has that fellow Findlay got over you that makes you step up and lick your bran out of his hand?"
"This is foolish talk from a man of your experience, Barrett—talk that I'd answer in just one way from any other man! Now, let me get at the bottom of your delirium. You say a Mexican was killed by Alvino, just as he was pulling his gun to shoot you. What had you done to provoke the man?"
Patiently, coolly as he was able to command his words, Barrett recounted the morning's experience, not forgetting the warning Manuel had given, nor Fred 'Grubb's positive identification of the slain man as the second thief.
