The eyes of the Texan were fixed on the mountains.  He appeared not interested.  Twenty feet away in a deep crevice at the edge of the coulee, Bat Lajune, who had overheard every word, was convulsed with silent mirth.

“You say they’ve dug up all the coulees?  Red Rock an’—­an’ all, Buffalo, Six-mile, Woodpile, Miller’s?” The Texan shot out the names with all appearance of nervous haste, but his eye was sombre as before as he noted the gleam of quick intelligence that flashed into the cowboy’s eyes.  “You’re sure they dug up Buffalo?” he pressed shrewdly.

“Yes, I think they finished there.”

The Texan gave a visible sigh of relief.  “Say,” he asked, presently, “do you know if they’re fordin’ at Cow Island this year?”

“Yes, the Two Bar reps come by that way.”

“I’m right obliged to you.  I reckon I’ll head north, though.  Canada looks good to me ’til this here wave of virtue blows over.  So long.”

“So long, Tex.  An’, say, there’s some of us friends of yourn that’s goin’ to see what we kin do about gettin’ them indictments squashed.  We don’t want to see you boys doin’ time fer stretchin’ no pilgrim.”

“You won’t,” answered the Texan.  “Toddle along now an’ hunt up Mr. Kester’s horses.  I want room to think.”  He permitted himself a broad smile as the other rode at a gallop toward the mountains, then turned his horse into the coulee he had just left and allowed him his own pace.

“So Purdy ain’t dead,” he muttered, “or was that damned fool lyin’?  I reckon he wasn’t lyin’ about that, an’ the grand jury, an’ the district attorney.”  Again he smiled.  “Let’s see how I stack up, now:  In the first place, Win ain’t on the run, an’ I am—­or I’m supposed to be.  But, as long as they don’t dig Win up out of the bottom of some coulee, I’m at large for want of a party of the first part to the alleged felonious snuffin’-out.  Gosh, I bet the boys are havin’ fun watchin’ that diggin’.  If I was there I’d put in my nights makin’ fresh-dug spots, an’ my days watchin’ ’em prospect ’em.”  Then his thoughts turned to the girl, and for miles he rode unheeding.  The sun had swung well to the westward before the cowboy took notice of his surroundings.  Antelope Butte lay ten or twelve miles away and he headed for it with a laugh.  “You must have thought I sure enough was headin’ for Cow Island Crossing didn’t you, you old dogie chaser?” He touched his horse lightly with his spurs and the animal struck into a long swinging trot.

“This here’s a mixed-up play all around,” he muttered.  “Win’s worryin’ about killin’ Purdy—­says it’s got under his hide ’til he thinks about it nights.  It ain’t so much bein’ on the run that bothers him as it is the fact that he’s killed a man.”  He smiled to himself:  “A little worryin’ won’t hurt him none.  Any one that would worry over shootin’ a pup like Purdy ought to worry—­whether he done it or not.  Then, there’s me.  I start