Where Quayle had picked up the little buckskin McQueen did not know or care. He needed a horse desperately, and the buckskin was a horse. Whatever Yount’s game was he had been fast and thorough. He had moved in on the Tumbling K, had had Ward McQueen drygulched, had had Miss Kermitt fire her old hands, and then, riding into Mannerhouse, had quieted all outward opposition by killing one man and beating another.

Tennessee, too, had been killed. Jim Yount had shown himself to be fast, ruthless, and quick of decision. And as he acted with the real or apparent consent of Ruth Kermitt, there was nothing to be done by any of the townspeople in the little village of Mannerhouse.

Probably none were inclined to do anything. There was no personal gain for anyone in bucking the killers Yount had around him. Obviously, the gambler was in complete control of the situation. He had erred in only two things—in failing to track down and kill Charlie Quayle and in thinking McQueen was dead, instead of making certain of it.

The buckskin was a quick-stepping little horse with a liking for the trail. Ward headed out toward the Tumbling K. Quayle had left earlier in the day, starting back into the Newtons to hunt for Kim. Baldy and Bud were good cowhands, but the slim, darkfaced youngster, Kim Sartain, was one of the fastest gunhands Ward had ever seen, and he had a continual drive toward trouble. Never beginning any fight, he loved a battle.

“With him,” Ward told the buckskin, “I’d tackle an army!”

He left the buckskin in a clump of willows near the stream, then crossed it on stepping stones, and worked his way through the greasewood toward the Tumbling K ranch house.

He had no plan of action. He had nothing on which to base such a plan. If he could find Ruth and talk to her, or if he could figure out something of the plan on which Yount was operating, that would be a beginning.

The windows shone bright as he neared the house. For a long time he lay behind a clump of greasewood and studied the situation. An error now would be fatal. Quick and sudden death would be all that awaited him.

There would be someone around, he was sure. Yount had no reason to expect trouble, for he seemed to have quieted all opposition with neatness and dispatch. Yet the gambler was a careful man.

A cigarette gleamed suddenly from the steps of the bunk-house. Somebody was seated there, on guard or just having a smoke.

Ward worked to the left until the house was between them, then he got up and moved swiftly to the wall of the house. He eased up to the window. It was a warm night, and the window was open at the bottom.

Jim Yount was playing solitaire at the dining room table. Red Lund was oiling a pistol. Packer was leaning his elbows on the table watching Yount’s cards and smoking.

“I always wanted a ranch,” Yount was saying, “and this is it. No use gallivantin’ around the country when a man can hole up and live in style. I’d of had it over the Newtons if that durned sand bed I got from Chait had been any good. Then I seen this place—it was too good to be true.

“Yuh shore worked fast,” Packer agreed. “And it was plumb lucky that Hollier and me got that McQueen. I hear tell he was a plumb salty hombre.”

Yount shrugged. “Mebbe. All sorts of stories get started. He might have been fast with a gun, but he didn’t have brains. It would take brains to win out.” He glanced up at Lund. “Look,” he said. “Logan Keane has that spread south of Hosstail Creek. Nice piece of land, thousands of acres with good water, runnin’ right up to Mannerhouse. Keane’s all scared now. Once this girl and me are married so the title to this place is cinched, we’ll go to work on Keane. We’ll rustle his stock, run off his hands, and force him to sell. I reckon we can do the whole job in a month, at the outside.” Red glanced up from his pistol.

“You get the ranches,” he said. “Where do I come in?”

Yount smiled. “You don’t want a ranch,” he said, “I do. Well, I happen to know where Ruth Kermitt’s got her money cached. There’s ten thousand in the lot. You boys”—for a moment his eyes held those of Red Lund—“can split that up among yuh. I reckon yuh can work out some way of dividin’ it even up!”

Lund’s eyes glinted with understanding. Watching, McQueen glanced quickly at Packer, but the big horse thief showed no sign of having seen the exchange of glances. Ward could see, only too plainly, how the money would be divided. It would be a split made by Red Lund’s six-guns. The others got lead, he got the cash.

It had the added advantage to Jim Yount of having only one actual witness to his own treachery.

Crouched in the darkness below the window, Ward McQueen calculated his chances. Jim Yount was reputed to be a fast man with a gun. Red Lund had proved himself so. Packer would be good, even if not the flash artist the other two were. Three to one in this case made odds much too long. And at the bunkhouse were Hollier and Pete Dodson, neither one a man to trifle with.

A clatter of horses hoofs sounded suddenly on the hard-packed trail from town, and a horseman showed briefly in the light from the door. Ward McQueen heard Hollier hail the rider, and could hear the mumble of voices. Then the door opened. Watching from a corner window, Ward saw the rider ushered into the room. It was the lean stranger who had played poker with Gelvin and Keane.

“You Jim Yount?” he asked. “They call me Rip. Just rode out here to say they got a express package at the station for Miss Kermitt. She can drop in and pick it up tomorrow if she likes.”

Yount stared at him. “Express package? Why didn’t yuh bring it out?”

The young rider shrugged. “Wouldn’t let me. Seems like it’s money. A package of dinero as payment on some property of hers back in Wyomin’. She’s got to sign for it herself. They won’t let nobody else have it.”

Yount stared at him. “Money, is it? Well, Miss Kermitt’s gone to sleep, but I’ll tell her!”

The rider turned and went out and in a few minutes Ward heard his horse on the road.

“More dinero?” Packer grinned. “Not bad, Boss! She can pick it up for us, and well split it, huh?”

Red Lund was staring at his pistol. “I don’t like it!” he said suddenly. “Looks like a chance to get us off the ranch and the girl into town!”

Yount shrugged. “So if they do? Who in town will tackle us?” He leaned forward, smiling. “I think it’s probably the truth. But even if it ain’t, why worry? We’ll send Packer in ahead to look the ground over. If there’s any strangers, he can warn us. No, I think it’s all right. We’ll go in tomorrow!”

An hour later, and far back on a brush-covered hillside, Ward McQueen bedded down for the night. From where he lay he could see any party that left the ranch. One thing he knew. Tomorrow was the pay-off. Ruth Kermitt would not be returning to that ranch.

With daylight he was awake. He smoked his breakfast, trying to work the chill from his bones. It had been a damp, uncomfortable night. The sunshine caught light from the ranch-house windows and slow smoke lifted from the kitchen. Hollier walked out and began roping horses. He saddled his own, Ruth Kermitt’s brown mare, and the big gray horse that belonged to Jim Yount.

Smoking his second cigarette, Ward McQueen tried to foresee what would happen. There were only nine buildings on the town’s main street, scarcely more than twenty houses scattered around them.

The express and stage office was next to the saloon. Gelvin’s store was across the street.

Where did this young rider stand? The man who called himself “Rip?” He seemed to be merely a tramp rider, but he had known of Ward McQueen’s shootout in Maravillas Canyon. Not many knew of that. Nor did Rip look like the casual drifter he was supposed to be. His eyes were too keen, too sharp. If he had baited a trap with money he had used the only bait to which these men would rise. But what was he hoping to accomplish?