“Well—” he drawled, smiling, “I might find a couple of steers branded with J. C. on the right hip.”
For one fraction of a second the black eyes burning sombrely on his flickered, lost their direct steadiness.
Selwood laughed, though he was alert in every nerve and his right hand was on his thigh near to the butt of the gun that hung there. Caldwell and several other riders stood close, their eyes on him. He thought of John Allison, found dead at the foot of Rainbow Cliff, to all intents the victim of accident.
“What’s the matter, Kate?” he asked pointedly. “Suffering from nerves? Didn’t think you had any.”
And he turned to ride over toward the corral.
Kate’s flaming orbs sought the face of her foreman.
“Go with him,” they telegraphed, and Caldwell went.
Selwood covered every foot of the home place of Sky Line in a grim silence, looking for anything. He looked into corral and stable, brush pasture and branding pen, but found no sign of the stolen steers.
When at last he rode away it was straight down along the face of Rainbow Cliff toward the west. He did not know why he skirted the rock-face, since it was hard going. The earth at the foot of the great precipice was slanting and covered with the loose stone that was forever falling from the weathered wall. It was rough on his horse’s feet, but he held him to it—and he was surprised to find that Caldwell was still with him, and riding inside next to the Cliff.
“Think I need escort, Caldwell?” he asked sarcastically.