“They would leave the automobile at Willow Creek, and cut across to the Pass,” she hazarded.

“All but Brill.  Being bridlewise, he rode right for Seven Mile to make dead sure of his alibi, whilst the others made their getaway with the loot.  When he happened to meet you on the way, he would be plumb tickled, for that cinched things proper for him.  You would be a witness nobody could get away from.”

“And what about their hawsses?  Did they bring the bronchs in the car, too?” drawled Keller, an amused flicker in his eyes.

The others, who had been swimming into their deductions so confidently, were brought up abruptly.  Phyllis glanced at Jim and looked foolish.

“The bronchs couldn’t tag along behind at a forty per clip.  That’s right,” admitted Yeager blankly.

“I hadn’t thought about that.  And they had to have their horses with them to get from Willow Creek to the Pass.  That spoils everything,” the girl agreed.

Then, seeing her lover’s white teeth flashing laughter at her, she knew he had found a way round the difficulty.  “How would this do, partners—­just for a guess:  The car was waiting for them at the end of the Del Oro Canon.  They dumped their loot into it, then unsaddled and threw all the saddles in, too.  They gave the bronchs a good scare, and started them into the hills, knowing they would find their way back home all right in a couple of days.  At Willow Creek they found hawsses waiting for them, and Mr. Spiker hit the back trail for Noches, with his car, and slid into town while everybody was busy about the robbery.”

“Sure.  That would be the way of it,” his friend nodded.  “All we got to do now is to get Spiker to squeal.”

“If he happens to be a quitter.”

“He will—­under pressure.  He’s that kind.”

A knock came on the door, and Tom Benwell, the store clerk, answered her summons to come in.

“It’s Budd, Miss Phyl.  He came to see about getting-that stuff you was going to order for a dress for his little girl,” the storekeeper explained.

Phyllis rose and followed the man back to the store.  When she had gone, Jim stepped to the door and shut it.  Returning, he sat down beside the bed.

“Larry, I didn’t tell all I know.  That hat in Spiker’s room had the initials P.S. written on the band.  What’s more, I knew the hat by a big coffee stain splashed on the crown.  It happens I made that stain myself on the round-up onct when we were wrastling and I knocked the coffeepot over.”

Keller looked at his friend gravely.  “It was Phil Sanderson’s hat?”

Yeager nodded assent.  “He must have loaned his old hat to Spiker for the holdup.”

“You didn’t turn the hat over to the sheriff?”

“Not so as you could notice it.  I shoved it in my jeans and burnt it over my camp fire next day.”

“This mixes things up a heap.  If Phil is in this thing—­and it sure looks that way—­it ties our hands.  I’d like to have a talk with Spiker before we do anything.”