His face was pale, and in his eyes was a queer expression of wonderment. Absently he picked up his pipe and lighted a match, but the pipe would not draw, and with a bitter curse he threw it across the room.
Finally he surged to his feet, stood for a moment, as though undecided, but finally locked his office and went across the street to the Oasis Saloon.
CHAPTER VIII: VISITORS
Manzanita County was not heavily populated, nor were there many towns, which possibly accounted for the fact that Lobo Wells was the county seat. Lobo Wells was really the head of the valley, at the north end, being situated near the mouth of Manzanita River, and almost against the hills. Manzanita River promised much, near its source, but as it flowed farther south the desert sands were too much for its existence, and it finally ceased to be a stream less than twenty miles south of Lobo Wells.
Fifteen miles due south of Lobo Wells was the town of Kernwood City on the bank of the fast fading stream, an outfitting place for a few scattering cattle ranches in that vicinity.
On the stage road to Kernwood City, below Lobo Wells, was the OK ranch, owned by Oscar Knight. Three miles west of Lobo Wells was the JP ranch, owned by “Silver” Prescott, the biggest ranch in the Manzanita country, while to the east, almost against the Broken Hills, was the Box S. Between the JP and the OK was the little Circle A, which had been owned by Len Ayres, but which his wife had sold to the JP. It was only a JP line camp now.
The Broken Hills were well named. Jagged cañons, towering, vermilion cliffs; a world on edge and on end, where still remained evidences of the cliff dwellers. Ten miles east of Lobo Wells was the Devil’s Punch Bowl, a miniature Grand Cañon, without inlet or outlet, almost round in contour.
It was the morning after Amos Baggs had received the letter from Jack Pollock. Harry Cole, ex-sheriff, now boss gambler of Lobo Wells, came down the stairs of the hotel and paused at the little counter to exchange a few words with the hotel-keeper, as was his custom, before going to breakfast.
Harry Cole had been a hard-riding cowpuncher before his election as sheriff, but his county office and his present occupation had smoothed off some of the rough edges and his huge frame was carrying extra weight. Perhaps liquor had something to do with it. Cole was not an early riser, because he did not retire early. He exchanged a few words with the man behind the desk, and his eyes idly roved over the dog-eared register, which usually remained open at the same page for weeks at a time. But this morning there were two strange names entered in a scrawling hand: H. Hartley and D. Stevens.
“Couple o’ cowpunchers,” explained the proprietor. “Got in late last night. Said they rode in from Kernwood.”