“You mean—Jake?” asked Tresler, in a queer tone.
“Sure,” was the emphatic reply.
“But, Joe, I saw the night-riders go out to-night. Not more than half an hour before the storm came on.”
The little man made no answer, but quietly urged his patient forward in the direction of the bunkhouse.
CHAPTER XIII
THE BEARDING OF JAKE
That night was one that lived long in Tresler’s memory. Weary in mind and body, he was yet unable to sleep when at last he sought his bunk. His head was racked with excruciating pain, which hammered through his brain with every pulsation of his throbbing temples. But it was not that alone which kept him awake. Thought ran riot with him, and his mind flew from one scene to another without concentration, without continuity, until he felt that if sleep did not come he must go mad.
He had talked late into the night with his shrewd counselor, Joe; and the net result of their talk was that all their theories, suspicions, deductions, were wrong. Jake and Red Mask were not one and the same. In all probability Jake had nothing to do with the ruffianly raider.