It was several miles to the Bar D, Dale's ranch, and when he arrived there he was in an ugly mood. He curtly dismissed the two men who had accompanied him and went into the house. Opening the door of the room he used as an office, he saw a medium-sized man of fifty sitting in a big desk chair, smoking a cigar.
The man smiled at Dale's surprise, but did not offer to get up, merely extending his right hand, which Dale grasped and shook heartily.
"Dave Silverthorn, or I'm a ghost!" ejaculated Dale, grinning. "How in thunder did you get here?"
"Rode," smiled the other, showing a set of white, flashing teeth. "I saw you pass the window. You looked rather glum, and couldn't see my horse, I suppose. Something gone wrong?"
"Everything," grunted Dale; "that confounded young Bransford has showed up!"
The smile left the other's face. His eyes glowed and the corners of his mouth took on a cruel droop.
"He has, eh?" he said, slowly. His voice was expressionless. "So that lead has petered out."
He puffed slowly at his cigar, studying Dale's face, while the latter related what had occurred.
"So Nyland is still at large, eh?" he remarked, when Dale had finished. "Why not set a gunman on him?"
Dale scowled. "There ain't a gunman in this section that would take a chance on Nyland—he's lightning!" Dale cursed. "Besides, there ain't no use in goin' after Nyland's place unless we can get the Double A."