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“And Crosby tells me,” continued Carr, “that the instant you had gone he looked into the exchange and saw Cahill at the farthest corner from the door. He could have heard nothing.”

“If you ask me, I think you’ve begun at the wrong end,” said Ranson. “If I were looking for the Red Rider I’d search for him in Kiowa City.”

“Why?”

“Because, at this end no one but a few officers knew that the paymaster was coming, while in Kiowa everybody in the town knew it, for they saw him start. It would be very easy for one of those cowboys to ride ahead and lie in wait for him in the buttes. There are several tough specimens in Kiowa. Any one of them would rob a man for twenty dollars–let alone ten thousand. There’s ‘Abe’ Fisher and Foster King, and the Chase boys, and I believe old ‘Pop’ Henderson himself isn’t above holding up one of his own stages.”

“He’s above shooting himself in the lungs,” said Carr. “Nonsense. No, I am convinced that someone followed you from this post, and perhaps Cahill can tell us who that was. I sent for him this morning, and he’s waiting at my quarters now. Suppose I ask him to step over here, so that we can discuss it together.”

Before he answered, Ranson hesitated, with his eyes on the ground. He had no way of knowing whether Mary Cahill had told her father anything of what he had said to her that morning. But if she had done so, he did not want to meet Cahill in the presence of a third party for the first time since he had learned the news.

“I’ll tell you what I wish you would do,” he said. “I wish you’d let me see Cahill first, by myself. What I want to see him about has nothing to do with the hold-up,” he added. “It concerns only us two, but I’d like to have it out of the way before we consult him as a witness.”

Carr rose doubtfully. “Why, certainly,” he said; “I’ll send him over, and when you’re ready for me step out on the porch and call. I’ll be sitting on my veranda. I hope you’ve had no quarrel with Cahill–I mean I hope this personal matter is nothing that will prejudice him against you.”

Ranson smiled. “I hope not, too,” he said. “No, we’ve not quarrelled- -yet,” he added.

Carr still lingered. “Cahill is like to be a very important witness for the other side–“

“I doubt it,” said Ranson, easily. “Cahill’s a close-mouthed chap, but when he does talk he talks to the point and he’ll tell the truth. That can’t hurt us.”

As Cahill crossed the parade-ground from Captain Carr’s quarters on his way to Ranson’s hut his brain was crowded swiftly with doubts, memories, and resolves. For him the interview held no alarms. He had no misgivings as to its outcome. For his daughter’s sake he was determined that he himself must not be disgraced in her eyes and that to that end Ranson must be sacrificed. It was to make a lady of her, as he understood what a lady should be, that on six moonlit raids he had ventured forth in his red mask and robbed the Kiowa stage. That there were others who roamed abroad in the disguise of the Red Rider he was well aware. There were nights the stage was held up when he was innocently busy behind his counter in touch with the whole garrison. Of these nights he made much. They were alibis furnished by his rivals. They served to keep suspicion from himself, and he, working for the same object, was indefatigable in proclaiming that all the depredations of the Red Rider showed the handiwork of one and the same individual.

“He comes from Kiowa of course,” he would point out. “Some feller who lives where the stage starts, and knows when the passengers carry money. You don’t hear of him holding up a stage full of recruits or cow-punchers. It’s always the drummers and the mine directors that the Red Rider lays for. How does he know they’re in the stage if he don’t see ’em start from Kiowa? Ask ‘Pop’ Henderson. Ask ‘Abe’ Fisher. Mebbe they know more than they’d care to tell.”