Now the railroad grade ran almost due north from Stlingbloke, and to have been at the camps on up the line the sheriff should have come in from the north; Manzanita wondered.
The sheriff saw her and rode toward her—a big-mustached man with a small, wizened face, seeming smaller still under the big Columbia-shape Stetson that he wore.
“Ain’t you Miss Canby?” he asked, riding up.
“Yes,” replied Manzanita. “I know you, Mr. Glenn. How do you do?”
“Yes, I been to Squawtooth several times. How’s yer dad?”
“Oh, he’s just fine.”
“Why don’t he come up and help us hunt the bandits?”
“He’s pretty busy just now. We’re doing some building over at Little Woman, and he rides there a great deal. That’s our winter camp, you know.”
“Yes, yes. Quite a sight, these here camps. First time I seen ’em. D’ye ride here often, Miss Canby?” He was curiously eying her heaving mare.
“Not much. I’ve been here only once before, in fact.” Then Manzanita made a plunge. “I’m looking for my brother, Martin. Have you seen him?”