“About that lease,” said Shoop, dismounting.  “If you got time to talk business.”

“Most certainly.  Dorothy will excuse us.”

“Is Adams gone?”

“He left this morning.”

“Uh-uh.  Here, Bondsman, quit botherin’ the young lady.”

“He isn’t bothering.  I know what he wants.”  And she ran to the kitchen.

Shoop’s face grew grave.  “I didn’t want to scare the little lady, Bronson, but Lorry’s father—­Jim Waring—­has been shot up bad over to Criswell.  He went in after that Brewster outfit that killed Pat.  I reckon he got ’em—­but I ain’t heard.”

“Adams’s father!”

“Yes, Jim Waring.  Here comes the little missy.  I’ll tell you later.  Now Bondsman is sure happy.”

And Bud forced a smile as Dorothy gave the dog a pan of something that looked suspiciously like bones and shreds of turkey meat.

A little later Bud found excuse to call Bronson aside to show him a good place to fence-in the corral.  Dorothy was playing with Bondsman.

“Jim’s been shot up bad.  I was goin’ to tell you that Annie Adams, over to Stacey, is his wife.  She left him when they was livin’ down in Mexico.  Lorry is their boy.  Now, Jim is as straight as a ruler; I don’t know just why she left him.  But let that rest.  I got a telegram from the marshal of Criswell.  Reads like Jim was livin’, but livin’ mighty clost to the edge.  Now, if I was to send word to Lorry he’d just nacherally buckle on a gun and go after them Brewster boys, if they’s any of ’em left.  He might listen to me if I could talk to him.  Writin’ is no good.  And I ain’t rigged up to follow him across the ridge.  It’s bad country over there.  I reckon I better leave word with you.  If he gets word of the shootin’ while he’s out there, he’ll just up and cut across the hills to Criswell a-smokin’.  But if he gets this far back he’s like to come through Jason—­and I can cool him down, mebby.”

“He ought to know; if his father is—­”

“That’s just it.  But I’m thinkin’ of the boy.  Jim Waring’s lived a big chunk of his life.  But they ain’t no use of the kid gettin’ shot up.  It figures fifty that I ought to get word to him, and fifty that I ought to keep him out of trouble—­”

“I didn’t know he was that kind of a chap:  that is, that he would go out after those men—­”

“He’s Jim Waring’s boy,” said Bud.

“It’s too bad.  I heard of that other killing.”

“Yes.  And I’ve a darned good mind to fly over to Criswell myself.  I knowed Pat better than I did Jim.  But I can’t ride like I used to.  But”—­and the supervisor sighed heavily—­“I reckon I’ll go just the same.”

“I’ll give your message to Adams, Mr. Shoop.”

“All right.  And tell him I want to see him.  How’s the little lady these days?”

“She seems to be much stronger, and she is in love with the hills and canons.”

“I’m right glad of that.  Kind of wish I was up here myself.  Why, already they’re houndin’ me down there to go into politics.  I guess they want to get me out of this job, ’cause I can’t hear crooked money jingle.  My hands feels sticky ever’ time I think of politics.  And even if a fella’s hands ain’t sticky—­politics money is.  Why, it’s like to stick to his feet if he ain’t right careful where he walks!”