Slone felt the hot, sick rush of blood to his face, and humiliation and rage overtook him.

“Joel’s down at my house.  He had fits after you beat him, an’ he ’ain’t got over them yet.  But he could blab to the riders.  Van Sickle’s lookin’ fer you.  An’ to-day when I was alone with Joel he told me some more queer things about you.  I shut him up quick.  But I ain’t guaranteein’ I can keep him shut up.”

“I’ll bet you I shut him up,” declared Slone.  “What more did the fool say?”

“Slone, hev you been round these hyar parts—–­down among the monuments—­fer any considerable time?” queried Brackton.

“Yes, I have—­several weeks out there, an’ about ten days or so around the Ford.”

“Where was you the night of the flood?”

The shrewd scrutiny of the old man, the suspicion, angered Slone.

“If it’s any of your mix, I was out on the slope among the rocks.  I heard that flood comin’ down long before it got here,” replied Slone, deliberately.

Brackton averted his gaze, and abruptly rose as if the occasion was ended.  “Wal, take my hunch an’ leave!” he said, turning away.

“Brackton, if you mean well, I’m much obliged,” returned Slone, slowly, ponderingly.  “But I’ll not take the hunch.”

“Suit yourself,” added Brackton, coldly, and he went away.

Slone watched him go down the path and disappear in the lane of cottonwoods.

“I’ll be darned!” muttered Slone.  “Funny old man.  Maybe Creech’s not the only loony one hereabouts.”

Slone tried to laugh off the effect of the interview, but it persisted and worried him all day.  After supper he decided to walk down into the village, and would have done so but for the fact that he saw a man climbing his path.  When he recognized the rider Holley he sensed trouble, and straightway he became gloomy.  Bostil’s right-hand man could not call on him for any friendly reason.  Holley came up slowly, awkwardly, after the manner of a rider unused to walking.  Slone had built a little porch on the front of his cabin and a bench, which he had covered with goatskins.  It struck him a little strangely that he should bend over to rearrange these skins just as Holley approached the porch.

“Howdy, son!” was the rider’s drawled remark.  “Sure makes—­me—­puff to climb—­up this mountain.”

Slone turned instantly, surprised at the friendly tone, doubting his own ears, and wanting to verify them.  He was the more surprised to see Holley unmistakably amiable.

“Hello, Holley!  How are you?” he replied.  “Have a seat.”

“Wal, I’m right spry fer an old bird.  But I can’t climb wuth a d—­n . . . .  Say, this here beats Bostil’s view.”

“Yes, it’s fine,” replied Slone, rather awkwardly, as he sat down on the porch step.  What could Holley want with him?  This old rider was above curiosity or gossip.

“Slone, you ain’t holdin’ it ag’in me—­thet I tried to shut you up the other day?” he drawled, with dry frankness.