“Maybe the sheriff’s there, pa,” Mart suggested by way of a reply.
“There’s another one,” added Squawtooth presently as a slight change of course showed the rear wheels of a second car beside the first.
Mrs. Ehrhart met the returning men, a question in her eyes.
“Nothin’, Mrs. Ehrhart,” Squawtooth answered it shortly. “We’re here for a bite, then we’ll get out ag’in. Rain in the mountains ruined pretty near all our grub. The boys’ll be in when they’ve ’tended to the stock. Just throw together what ye can find. Mart’ll help ye. Who’s here in the machines?”
Mrs. Ehrhart wiped her eyes with her blue-and-white checked apron. “One of ’em’s the sheriff’s,” she said. “And Mr. Demarest come in the big one. He’s here now. His outfit went through this mornin’.”
“Thought I saw somethin’ new movin’ up through the buttes. Martie, you get cleaned up and help Mrs. Ehrhart to feed the boys. I’ll have to go and see Mr. Demarest and the sheriff.”
He found Demarest, Spruce, and the wizened Fred Glenn, sheriff of the county, in the parlor of the old adobe.
Philip Demarest rose hastily and stepped to meet the cowman when he saw him entering.
“Canby, by George, it’s good to see you again, even if we find you in trouble. What an infernal mess! Heavens to Betsy! Any news at all?”
Squawtooth Canby gripped the main contractor’s hand and fought hard to appear cheerful and hospitable. He was introduced to Mr. Everett Spruce. He nodded briefly at the sheriff.