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provided for them in the center of the room. Sholto was ostentatiously seated in a chair where he was hidden, save for his head, by the bodies of the posse members.
    Carol and McFee, since this was the first time they had seen the man who was supposed to have witnessed the signing of the famous deed, stared at him. It was this man who held their fate in his hands, for without him to swear he had witnessed the transaction, Maitland could prove that any child could forge McFee’s signature. Carol’s first thought was that he looked angry. He was thin, gaunt-cheeked, burned to a saddle color except for his forehead, which had a band of lighter flesh beneath the hairline where his hat had shaded him. Against her will she liked his face. It was melancholy, reserved, almost austere, and for one fleeting moment Carol wondered if her father had signed the deed and forgotten it. This man Sholto didn’t look like a professional liar.
    Sheriff Beal sat on Sholto’s right, and he kept his eyes on McFee. The old boy wouldn’t give him any trouble, he knew, but it wouldn’t hurt to pretend he would. He was still watching McFee and Maitland, almost glaring at them, when a man stepped in between his chair and Tate Wallace’s, who was seated on his right. It was Ernie See, his plain face preoccupied.
    â€œHarve, I just ran into somethin’ funny. You remember old man Badey’s horse that was reported stole out of the feed corral this morning in Yellow Jacket?”
    Beal nodded, knowing in his bones what was coming.
    â€œWell, I just seen him in the corral down the street.”
    He and Beal looked at each other a long quiet moment, and then Tate Wallace, who had overheard Ernie, said, “Here? In Sabinal?”
    Again Ernie nodded. Wallace put it into words, drawling angrily, “Well, Sheriff, it only goes to prove what I been tryin’ to tell you. Box 73 at Wagon Mound is Bruce McFee’s box. McFee and Dave Coyle was in Yellow Jacket last night. Dave Coyle never owned a horse in his life. He steals them whenever he wants to move. A horse is stole in Yellow Jacket this mornin’ and it turns up in Sabinal this noon.”
    Sheriff Beal murmured, “Goddlemighty,” and groaned.
    Tate Wallace shoved his chair back and stood up and walked around to the table to face McFee. Sheriff Beal was at his heels, watching him anxiously.
    â€œSo you’ve throwed in with an outlaw now, have you, McFee?” Wallace demanded.
    McFee’s surprise was greater than his anger as he came to his feet. “What outlaw?”
    â€œDave Coyle. He’s in town.”
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with me?”
    â€œYou wrote him to meet you in Yellow Jacket!” Wallace said hotly. “You talked to him last night!”
    Maitland said sternly, “Watch your language, Wallace, or I’ll slap a libel suit on you to boot!”
    McFee didn’t even hear his lawyer. He said angrily to Wallace, “You’re a liar on two counts!” His napkin was balled up in his fist.
    â€œGentlemen, gentlemen,” Senator Maitland said. “Remember where we are.”
    â€œI’m tellin’ you somethin’, McFee,” Wallace said savagely. “You’re travelin’ on the same train as we are this afternoon! We’re takin’ Sholto in the baggage car! And if I lay eyes on you or Coyle in that baggage car I’ll gun you like the damn double-crossin’ dog you are!”
    McFee hit him then. He moved quickly, hotly, and there was a lot of solid weight behind the blow. Wallace cakewalked backward off balance until he was brought up against a chair, and then he sat down abruptly on the floor. For a half second he was immobile, and then his hand streaked for his gun. Sheriff Beal dived at him, and so did the man in the chair beside him. They caught him just as the gun was clearing leather, and there was a swift moment of grunting and wrestling, and