“I don’t know,” Munson admitted helplessly. He straightened Joan Wilcox up and got out a big white handkerchief with which he tenderly wiped away the tears from her eyes. “Try to think back, dear,” he urged her. “You were a young girl when your father left home. Are you positive there wasn’t a younger brother whom he took along with him?”

  “Of course I’m positive,” she flashed at him. “That is … well, I never heard of a brother. And it’s too utterly preposterous to think there might have been one I didn’t know about. After all, I was nine years old, Paul.”

  “I know. It’s just that … everything seemed to fit so perfectly for this rancher named Bill Freeman to be your father. The time he located here, his being a Texan, the name of William Freeman, the brand he uses of two W’s. Are you sure he has a son?” Munson demanded angrily of Pat.

  “I told you. The boy’s name is Dick Freeman, though I got to admit he sure doesn’t take after his Daddy. Dick is lazy and wild and always gettin’ into trouble. Over a year ago I had to give strict orders to all the saloons in town not to sell Dick no whiskey. An’ Bill had to clamp down on paying his gamblin’ debts too.”

  Sam Sloan pushed back his big hat and scratched his sweating forehead thoughtfully. He drawled, “Yuh know somethin’, Pat? I bin thinkin’.”

  Pat said, “Don’t strain yoreself.”

  “I mean really,” Sam protested. “Like you say, Dick Freeman shore don’t look or act none like Bill’s boy. Seems tuh me I heard onct that he wasn’t. Not really.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Munson demanded.

  “I’m tellin’ yuh. I usta have a ranch near thuh Four-V’s an’ I knowed Bill Freeman real good. Even back in them days, Dick was a sort of heller, an’ seems to me I recollect Bill tellin’ me one day that Dick was only adopted.”

  His casual statement fell like a bombshell in the small office. Joan widened her eyes hopefully while Munson slammed his fist into his palm and exclaimed, “That would explain everything! It sounds plausible too. Cut off from his home and family; unable to marry again because he wasn’t divorced from his first wife; it would be perfectly natural for Mr. Wilcox to take some orphan in and adopt him. That must be the explanation, Joan. Where can we find this boy, Sheriff?”

  “Over to the Gold Eagle Saloon, I reckon. That’s where he hangs out whenever he can get away from the ranch.”

  “Let’s go see him at once. I’ll talk to this boy. Certainly, he’ll know whether Freeman is his real father, and whether his real name is Wilcox or not.”

  “I reckon so,” Pat agreed. He stepped back to get his hat from a nail in the wall, got his gun-belt from the back of the chair and buckled it about his lean hips. Joan and Paul Munson preceded them outside, and Sam and Pat followed, pulling the door of the lean-to shut behind them.

  The sun was down and it was already noticeably cooler outside. With the coming of evening, the village of Dutch Springs was beginning to throw off the lethargy of a hot day and bestir itself. Two riders ambled down Main Street past the courthouse, and in the main business block beyond people were drifting out onto the board-walks to enjoy the cool evening air.

  With her closed parasol in one gloved hand and the other resting lightly on her escort’s arm, Joan tripped along lightly and eagerly beside her fiancé while Pat and Sam followed a few paces behind. Out here in the open air, with her chin lifted and her face turned up to the sky, the Eastern girl didn’t seem as fragile as she had appeared at first. Her body was slender but there was a suggestion of lithe strength and vigor in the way she carried herself, and her indomitable spirit was evidenced by her eagerness to face the youth who called himself the son of the man she hoped was her father.

  As they crossed the street and neared the saloon, Pat moved ahead to Joan’s side and told her, “I’ll go in the Gold Eagle an’ bring Dick Freeman out, Miss Wilcox. Why don’t you and Mr. Munson mosey on up to the Jewel Hotel with Sam? You can talk to Dick in the lobby there.”

  “That will be best, dear,” Munson said as it seemed that Joan was about to demur. “We’ll expect you in a few minutes, Sheriff.”

  Pat nodded to Sam, and turned aside through the swinging doors into the Gold Eagle. Three punchers stood at the bar, and the inevitable game of stud poker was in progress at a table at the rear.

  One of the men at the bar was Clay Porter, foreman of the Four-V’s spread. He was under thirty, as tall as Pat, with a smooth, hawklike face, lean-hipped and hard-muscled. He leaned on the bar with one elbow supporting him, and fiddled with a glass of whiskey.

  He showed a double row of even white teeth in a slow smile and said, “Howdy, Sheriff,” as Pat came toward him.

  Pat said, “Evenin’, Clay.” He nodded to the bartender and said, “I just won the price of a drink off Sam.”

  While the bartender filled a glass in front of him, he asked Porter, “Dick come in with you?”

  Porter nodded back toward the stud game. “We’ll be leaving as soon as he loses the rest of his cash. Won’t be long, I reckon. He was down four hundred half an hour ago.” There was a covert sneer in his voice as he spoke of his employer’s son. He lifted his glass and said perfunctorily, “Here’s to you, Sheriff.”

  Pat nodded and drained his glass. He said, “Isn’t four hundred pretty heavy losing for a kid like Dick?”

  Porter laughed shortly. “I reckon Bill keeps on hopin’ he’ll learn when not to call.”

  “Did you know Bill Freeman down in Texas?”

  “Nope. I hired on with him ten years ago, a green hand.”

  “I’ve never quite been able to figure Bill having a kid like Dick,” Pat said casually. “He sure don’t act like he’s got much Freeman blood in him.”

  “There’s a reason for that,” Porter said shortly.

  “So?” Pat looked interested.

  “Shore. Dick ain’t a Freeman. Not many people know it, but Bill took him in and ’dopted him about eight years ago. Brought him back from Denver where he got him out of some orphan’s home. It’s dang near broke Bill’s heart the way the boy’s turned out.”

  “Is that a fact? I never knew that before. Always wondered what’d become of Bill’s wife.”

  “He never had one, I reckon. Never heard him mention being married.”

  Pat nodded. He said, “I’m going to have to pull Dick away from that game. Got a couple of people up to the hotel want to see him.”

  Clay Porter’s sleepy black eyes opened a trifle and showed a gleam of curiosity. “Anything wrong?”

  Pat shook his head. “Just some old friends of Bill Freeman’s in town.” He sauntered away from the bar toward the poker game.

  There were four players. Dick Freeman was the youngest by several years. He was a big-boned youth, with dark features that held a naturally sullen expression. He needed a haircut, and one thick strand of coarse black hair fell dankly across his forehead as he cursed loudly and threw his hand down. He glared up at Pat as the sheriff stopped beside his chair, and muttered hoarsely, “They’re trimmin’ me, Sheriff. If we didn’t have a new deck I’d swear they were marked cards.”

  He had a big mouth and loose lips. He hadn’t begun to shave yet, and his cheeks and chin were covered with soft down. He looked down at the few remaining chips in front of him and asked the other players, “Any of you wanta stake me to another hundred?”

  All of them avoided his eyes, and none replied. Pat put his hand on the lad’s shoulder and said drily, “Cash in those few you’ve got left, Dick, an’ come along with me.”

  Dick looked up with his mouth hanging open slackly. “I ain’t done nothin’, Sheriff.”

  Pat grinned and said easily, “I’m not arresting you, Dick. Just want you to meet some friends up at the hotel.”

  “It ain’t yore job tuh nursemaid me,” the boy said defensively. “I can pay for another stack of chips when I come to town next week.”

  Pat’s fingers tightened on his shoulder, and without perceptible effort the sheriff lifted him from his chair. He kept his voice low and even, but it held the ring of authority, “I said to cash in and come on with me.”

  Behind him, Clay Porter’s smooth voice asked, “Any trouble here?”

  Without looking at him, Pat said, “No trouble, Clay.”

  The boy wrenched his shoulder away from Pat’s hand resentfully, and leaned down to push his chips into the center of the table. The house-man counted them and laid out a few greenbacks. Dick Freeman seized them and turned to the sheriff angrily. “What’s this hocus-pocus all about? It’s my money I’m losing.”

  “That’s right, Sheriff.” Porter’s voice was still smooth, but it was edged and cold. “Looks tuh me like yo’re hornin’ in where you ain’t needed. I’m responsible for Dick when he’s in town.”

  Pat snorted angrily and took Dick’s arm in a firm grip. “You’re welcome to trail along,” he told the Four-V’s foreman, “but you’re both gettin’ wringy about nothing. Some folks at the hotel want to talk with Dick like I said.” He turned and led the boy out to the swinging doors while Porter followed with an indecisive scowl on his face.

  Outside the Gold Eagle, Pat let go of Dick’s arm and said impatiently, “I’m not worrying about how you throw away yore money, son. These people are from the East and I promised to bring you up to the hotel.”

  “From the East?” The boy’s voice broke into an adolescent squeak. He stopped for a moment and stared at Pat. “I don’t know nobody from the East.”

  “These are old friends of Bill’s,” Pat told him. “You knew he’d lived in the East before he adopted you, didn’t you?”

  There was a queer look of fright on Dick’s loose-lipped face. He turned to Porter who had followed them out of the saloon and demanded, “Did you hear that, Clay? What’s he talkin’ about?”

  “I shore dunno,” Clay Porter said. “Whyn’t we all go up to the hotel an’ see?”

  “That makes sense,” Pat growled. He turned and stalked ahead of them toward the Jewel Hotel.

  He found the trio waiting in the lobby when he turned in ahead of the pair. Joan Wilcox jumped up with impulsive eagerness and asked, “Where is he, Sheriff? Did you ask him … about being adopted?”

  Pat nodded. “That part’s all right.” He turned as the door opened behind him and said gruffly, “This here is Dick Freeman, Miss Wilcox. And Clay Porter, foreman of the Four-V’s.”

  Dick stopped and gaped at the beautiful young girl. Porter stopped beside him but he didn’t gape. His eyes widened and became boldly admiring. He lifted his hat with a flourish and said, “I shore am pleased to meet up with you, Miss Wilcox.” His gaze lingered downward over her trim figure and came back to her face.

  “And Mr. Munson,” Pat went on. “Miss Wilcox’s fiancy from Philadelphia. They come all the way to Dutch Springs lookin’ for Bill Freeman.”

  Paul Munson moved forward to stand beside Joan. He said shortly, “What’s this nonsense about you pretending to be Freeman’s son?” eying Dick accusingly.

  Dick colored and dropped his eyes and shuffled his boot-clad feet. “I dunno what you mean.”

  “You must know his name is really Wilcox,” Munson said flatly. “This young lady is his daughter. His only child.”

  Porter straightened and his black eyes narrowed. “What’re you drivin’ at, Mister?”

  “I’ve stated it as plainly as I am able,” snapped Munson. “We know your employer’s name isn’t Freeman and this young man is illegally masquerading as his son.”

  Dick’s loose lips trembled and he was about to speak when Porter thrust him back and said curtly, “I dunno what yore game is, but I ain’t takin’ much of that kinda talk from no city dude.” His hand dropped to the butt of his holstered gun and his voice rang out ominously, “Anybody that’s got anything tuh say against Bill Freeman is talkin’ tuh me fust. What d’yuh mean by sayin’ his name ain’t Freeman?”

  Munson shrugged and tightened his lips. Before he could jerk out an angry reply, Joan pressed forward and said impulsively, “Don’t you understand? We think Mr. Freeman is really my father who disappeared from Philadelphia more than ten years ago. That’s all. We’re not accusing him of doing anything wrong.” Her voice trembled and she choked back a sob. “Haven’t you ever heard him mention Philadelphia or having a wife and daughter back there?”

  Clay Porter stared at her grimly. “Sounds like a passel of lies tuh me, Ma’m. Bill Freeman’s from Texas an’ I’ve heard him say plenty of times he ain’t never been East of the Mississippi in his hull life.”

  There was an instant of silence in the hotel lobby. Then Joan said, “Take me to him, Mr. Porter. As soon as I see him, I’ll know. Please take me to him.”

  Porter shook his head doggedly. He turned to Pat and appealed to him, “It’s time you stopped this foolishment, Sheriff. Pears tuh me there’s a bad mistake somewheres. What proof has she got of these things she’s sayin’?”

  “She hasn’t any positive proof,” Pat admitted. “She knows her father is in Powder Valley living under a different name, and several things make us think he may be Bill Freeman. As soon as Winters gets back from Pueblo we’ll know,” he went on. “Her father wrote East years ago to say she and her mother could get in touch with him through Winters.”

  “Then let her wait till he gets here an’ tells her who she’s lookin’ for,” growled Porter ungraciously. “Bill Freeman is a sick man an’ ain’t in no shape tuh have somethin’ like that throwed at him unexpected. C’mon, Dick. We’ll be ridin’ back to thuh ranch.”

  He turned on his heel and strode out, and after a moment of indecision, Dick followed him. Joan started forward with a little cry of dismay, but Pat caught her arm and advised her, “I wouldn’t argue with ’em, Miss. Wait’ll you can see Mr. Winters an’ find out for sure.”

  “What made them act like that?” she cried out with tears in her eyes. “As though I … as though I were making it all up. I don’t think they believed me at all.”

  “I don’t rightly know,” Pat said slowly. “I reckon it was sort of a shock to hear you say Bill Freeman is somebody else. I’ll ride out to the Four-V’s tomorrow an’ have a talk with Bill myself,” he soothed the distraught girl.

  With that promise, she and her fiancé had to be content, but after they had left the couple at the hotel and were strolling down the street toward their horses, Pat admitted to Sam with a shake of his head, “I don’t like the looks of this very much. Seemed like Clay Porter took it personal about that girl claimin’ to be Bill’s daughter.”

  “He changed toward her mighty fast,” Sam agreed. “Fust off, I thought he was gonna start makin’ love to her right there in the hotel. But he cooled off fast after Munson spoke his piece.”

  “Too fast and too much,” Pat growled. “A man’d think he’d like the idea of havin’ a purty girl like that come out to the ranch to stay.” They reached the hitching rail where their horses were tied, and mounted to ride back to the Lazy Mare ranch where Sam and his wife and young son were staying until they got a place of their own.

  “We’ll ride out to see Bill first thing in the morning,” Pat proposed as they turned out of town. “I’m right curious to know how the old lobo cottons to the idea of being daddy to the purtiest girl I ever saw.”

  3.

  Leaving the hotel behind them, Clay Porter and Dick stalked side by side toward the Gold Eagle hitchrack. Dick’s face held a queer look of indecision and he glanced aside at his companion a couple of times as though to speak, but the harshly forbidding expression on Porter’s face deterred him.

  They reached the front of the saloon in silence, and as Dick started to turn in with him, the foreman stopped and held him back. “We better be ridin’, kid. I’ll just be a minute inside. You wait here by the hawses.”

  “I’d shore like a drink,” the youth said resentfully.

  “They won’t sell you a drink an’ you know it,” Porter reminded him sharply. “You wait out here.” He pushed through the swinging doors into the saloon while Dick loitered indecisively outside.

  With a mumbled oath at his youth which kept him away from such adult pleasures, Dick turned to the hitchrack and untied the reins of a big-boned roan carrying the Four-V’s brand on his hip. The roan tossed his head and backed away, and Dick swung into the saddle as the swinging doors opened again and Clay Porter came out.

  Dick’s eyes glinted avidly as he saw the paper-wrapped bottle in the foreman’s hand. He reined his horse back and waited impatiently for Porter to mount, then spurred to a gallop down Main Street and out of Dutch Springs toward the ranch at the upper end of the Valley.

  The night was young, and the darkness was soft and illusive about them as they left the town behind. They rode side by side at a gallop for half a mile before Dick reined up and begged greedily, “C’mon, Clay. Gimme a drink out of that bottle before I plumb die of wantin’ one.”

  “I figured you’d be needing a drink,” Porter said grimly. He pulled his mount down and reached behind him into the saddlebag for the whiskey bottle he had bought at the Gold Eagle. He had had the cork loosened by the bartender, and now he pulled it out and offered the open bottle to the seventeen-year-old boy.

  Dick seized it and took three big gulps of the whiskey. It set him to coughing violently as it burned its way down his throat, but he gulped and said manfully, “That’s mighty good rot-gut, Clay. Shore sets a man right.” He took a smaller drink and passed the bottle back to the Four-V’s foreman.

  Porter recorded it and slid the bottle back into his saddlebag. They started forward at a jog-trot and Porter said, “The way you got sick-lookin’ back at the hotel, I knew you needed a bracer.”

  “What are we gonna do?” demanded the boy miserably. “She’ll take the ranch sure. You know as well as I do that she was tellin’ the truth. I don’t see what good it did to deny it like you did. I told you all about how Dad’s name is really Wilcox an’ he’s got a girl about her age that he ain’t seen for ten years.”