"Five steers gone," he said succinctly, his eyes hard and expectant, challenging his employer's.
"Gone?" repeated Steve. "Where? And when?"
"I don't know," replied Barbee. "I missed 'em four days ago. I wouldn't believe they'd gone for good. I didn't see how they could of gone. I've looked for 'em ever since; I've rode into an' out of every cañon an' pass; I've been everywhere they could go. But—they're gone. Five big steers."
For a moment their eyes, Steve's as hard as Barbee's, held steady and unwinking in a deeply probing gaze.
"Barbee," said Steve after a little, "remember the night Blenham tried to bribe you with a thousand-dollar bill?"
Barbee flushed and nodded.
"I get you," he said quietly. "Think he's bought me up, maybe?"
"I don't know what to think. But this much is clear; If you are on the level it's up to you to see that I don't lose any more stock. And it's also up to you to find where those five steers went. And get them back. Every single hoof of them."
That night Steve himself spent in Drop Off Valley, a rifle over his arm. He had ordered his men to carry guns, and if Blenham or another man were detected driving off his cattle, to shoot and to shoot to kill.
But the next day he returned to the home ranch. He trusted his cowboys—all but Barbee, and in Barbee's case he was not sure what to think—and it was only too clear to him that there were enough men there to cope with the situation without his interference. Two days later Barbee reported to him again.