A cowboy, his horse lathered and panting painfully, was at a halt before the hotel. A crowd of curious men surrounded him.
“I’ll go fer a doctor,” said Sim Pierce, and hustled off without waiting for further news.
“What’s the matter?” asked the scout.
“I was lopin’ inter town with a pard,” replied the cowboy, “when we found Jake Phelps’ hoss, without no saddle, runnin’ to’rds ther ranch. A mile farder we found Jake hisself, layin’ face down in the trail. He come in arter the pay-rool money, an’ the money was gone. Jake was about gone, too, an’ he may be clean gone by now. I left Jeems with him, while I hit the breeze fer a sawbones. We gotter have the doc in er hurry, an’ mebby it won’t do no good at that.”
This news hit the scout between the eyes. Already the bystanders were exchanging significant glances.
The scout grabbed Nomad’s arm and pulled him back into the office.
“This looks bad, pard,” he whispered.
“Ye don’t think Nate had anythin’ ter do with what happened ter Jake Phelps?” gasped the old trapper.
“Certainly not, but there are others who’ll think so—after what happened between Nate and Jake Phelps here in Hackamore. Take my word for it, Bloom will be the first one to voice the suspicion.”