“No, not real fightin’. I caught ’em puttin’ a branded steer into one of my herds, so they could say I stole it, about a week ago, and Will Whittaker and I exchanged compliments over the affair.”
As he spoke a tall, gray-haired man, riding a sweating horse at a hard gallop, rushed up the street and dismounted on the opposite side. His thin, pale face bore a look of angry excitement.
“What’s the matter with Colonel Whittaker?” exclaimed Ellhorn. “He looks as if he’d heard the devil behind him!”
Whittaker had spoken to a man in the doorway of an office bearing the sign, “Fillmore Cattle Company,” and already several others had gathered around the two and all were listening eagerly.
“Something’s happened, boys,” said Mead, as they watched the group across the way. “They told me in Muletown that Colonel Whittaker had passed through there the day before on his way to the ranch.”
Just then Miss Delarue came up the sidewalk leading the flaxen-haired child, and as she passed the three men she smiled a pleasant recognition to Ellhorn and Mead.
“Who’s she?” Tuttle asked, gazing after her admiringly.
“Why, Frenchy Delarue’s daughter!” Ellhorn answered. “Didn’t you ever see her before? That’s queer. You remember Delarue, the Frenchman who has the store up the street a-ways and loves to hear himself talk so well. He came here two years ago with a sick wife. She was an Englishwoman and the girl looks just like her. She died in a little while and the daughter has taken care of the kid ever since as if she was its mother. She’s a fine girl.”
“She’s mighty fine lookin’, anyway,” Tuttle declared.