"If it wasn't for that confounded note," he muttered, "this business would have a different look. I didn't think Fresnay saw that."
"He said he'd be a friend of ours," frowned Clip gloomily. "Now he's making me trouble."
"Fresnay meant well. He thought he was doing the right thing to carry his suspicions to the sheriff. In any other circumstances, Clip, you'd have done the same thing, and so would I. I'll go with you out there. Then, if anything should come of it, I'll have something to say. Governor Gaynor is a friend of mine, and so is McKibben. I'm sure they'd both of them listen to me."
Clip shook his head.
"I'll do this alone. I'm not going to ring you in. If I ever meant anything in my life I mean that. You say you're a friend of mine. Then prove it by staying right here in town. Don't say anything about me to any one. That's all, Matt."
Clip glided to the door, opened it softly, and made a cautious survey of the stairway and the hall.
"The coast is clear," he whispered, turning back for a moment, "and I can get out without being seen. Good-by, pard."
"So-long, Clip."
Clip vanished from the room. Matt, looking from the front window, saw him emerge from the house and start for a back street on his way to the Mexican quarter. His Indian blood never showed in him more than it did then. There was savage wariness in every movement.
Heavy-hearted and full of foreboding, Matt dropped into a chair. His judgment told him that Clip ought not to go into the hills, but there was no way Matt could prevent it. His hands were tied.