"But—your letter said you had shot yourself and couldn't live long. I read it myself. Mr. Threewit showed it to me before he left."
"And Mr. Harrison told us it was true," corroborated Mrs. Seymour. She knew something was wrong, but as yet she could not guess what.
"Harrison! Has he been here?" asked Yeager sharply.
"He and Ruth left this afternoon for Noche Buena. He said you wanted to see her before you died and he showed us the letter you had written."
The range-rider stood paralyzed. The truth flashed numbingly over his brain.
"Ruth—gone with Harrison—to Noche Buena," was all he could say.
Again Daisy cut in, this time sharply. "Tell us your story, Steve. What is it that's wrong?"
In a dozen sentences he told it. They listened tensely. The mother was the first to break the silence after he had finished. She began to sob. Steve put an arm across her shoulder awkwardly.
"Now, don't you, Mrs. Seymour. Don't you take on. We'll get right on his trail." He turned abruptly to Orman. "Get horses saddled. We'll hit the road right away. Daisy, call up Threewit and let him know. I'll take your gat, Shorty."
The edge of decision was in his voice. Nobody disputed the orders of this lean, brown, sunbaked youth with the alert, quiet, masterful eyes. In his manner was something more deadly than threats. More than one of those present thought he would not like to be Harrison.