“They better,” grinned Curt, and rode back toward the east end of the dead-line.
“What do you suppose the shooting was about?” queried Mrs. Hartwell anxiously.
“That’s what I’m goin’ to find out, Mother. It was near the old Morgan place. Now, there’s no use borrowin’ trouble. It can probably all be explained.”
And just to show that he believed in his own assurances, he mounted his horse and went galloping across the hills toward the Morgan ranch. He was afraid that some of the cattlemen had taken it for granted that Jack was the traitor and had paid him an early morning visit.
He knew that Gene Hill had not been lying when he said that Jack had smashed his way through the dead-line. Hill bore evidences of the encounter. Bert Allen had seen him, but not near enough for recognition. Things looked bad for Jack, but down in his heart, Marsh Hartwell could not believe that his son had turned traitor out of spite.
He rode to the top of a hill in sight of the little ranch, where he drew rein. There was no assurance that Jack would not enforce his private dead-line, and Marsh had no desire to be made a target for his son’s rifle. From his elevated position he could see two men and a saddled horse in the front yard.
It looked very much like a black and white pinto, belonging to Sudden Smithy. He whistled softly and spurred down the hill, wondering what would bring the sheriff out there so early in the morning.
The sheriff and Jack were not having a very animated conversation, as he rode up and dismounted. In fact the sheriff seemed a trifle annoyed over something, and barely nodded to Marsh Hartwell. Jack did not make any sign.
“Ridin’ early ain’t yuh?” asked Marsh.
“Kinda.”