Dale had made it his business to inquire often about the son, and when one day Bransford told him he had received a letter from his boy, Dale betrayed such interest that the elder Bransford had permitted him to read the letter.

That had been about a year before Mary had written the letter that Sanderson had found in one of Will Bransford’s pockets.  The letter told of the writer’s longing to return home.  The elder Bransford declared that his heart had not softened toward the boy and that he would not answer him.  Leaving Dale, Bransford had dropped the letter, and Dale had picked it up.

Dale still had the letter, and because of his pretended friendship for the father he had been able to insinuate himself into Mary’s good graces.  He had advised Mary to write to her brother, and he had seen the letter from the younger Bransford in which the latter had told his sister that he would return.

After reading Will Bransford’s letter, and learning from Mary that she was sending a thousand dollars to her brother, Dale wrote to a friend in Tucson.  Dale’s letter accompanied Mary’s to the latter town, and the evil-visaged fellow who received it grinned widely in explaining the circumstance to two of his friends.

“We’ll git him, sure as shootin’,” he said.  “A thousand dollars ain’t a hell of a lot—­but I’ve put men out of business for less!”

Dale knew the man to whom he had written, and he had received a reply, telling him that the job would be done.  And that was why, when Sanderson had calmly announced that he was Will Bransford, Dale had been unwilling to believe his statement.

Dale did not believe, now, that the man who had interfered to save Nyland was Will Bransford.  Dale rode slowly homeward, scowling, inwardly fuming with rage, but unable to form any decided plan of action.

It was several miles to the Bar D, Dale’s ranch, and when he arrived there he was in an ugly mood.  He curtly dismissed the two men who had accompanied him and went into the house.  Opening the door of the room he used as an office, he saw a medium-sized man of fifty sitting in a big desk chair, smoking a cigar.

The man smiled at Dale’s surprise, but did not offer to get up, merely extending his right hand, which Dale grasped and shook heartily.

“Dave Silverthorn, or I’m a ghost!” ejaculated Dale, grinning.  “How in thunder did you get here?”

“Rode,” smiled the other, showing a set of white, flashing teeth.  “I saw you pass the window.  You looked rather glum, and couldn’t see my horse, I suppose.  Something gone wrong?”

“Everything,” grunted Dale; “that confounded young Bransford has showed up!”

The smile left the other’s face.  His eyes glowed and the corners of his mouth took on a cruel droop.

“He has, eh?” he said, slowly.  His voice was expressionless.  “So that lead has petered out.”

He puffed slowly at his cigar, studying Dale’s face, while the latter related what had occurred.