Stafford filled and lighted his pipe. "I'm takin' Dave Leviatt's word for it," he said.
"Who's Leviatt?" queried Ferguson.
"My range boss," returned Stafford.
"He's been ridin' sign on Radford an' says he's responsible for all the stock that we've been missin' in the last six months."
Ferguson rolled a cigarette. He lighted it and puffed for a moment in silence, the manager watching him.
"Back at Dry Bottom," said Ferguson presently, "there was a man shootin' at a can when I struck town. He put five bullets through the can. Was that your range boss?"
Stafford smiled. "That was Leviatt—my range boss," he returned. "We went over to Dry Bottom to get a gunfighter. We wanted a man who could shoot plum quick. He'd have to be quick, for Radford's lightnin' with a six. Leviatt said shootin' at a can would be a good way to find a man who could take Radford's measure—in case it was necessary," he added quickly.
Ferguson's face was a mask of immobility. "Where's Leviatt now?" he questioned.
"Up the Ute with the outfit."
"How far up?"