get some radishes and lettuce. On the way she had to pass the corral. Her brother Hal, Slim Sanders, and Cherokee Street were roping and branding some calves. The guest of the house had hung his coat and hat on a fence-post to keep them from getting soiled, but the hat had fallen into the dust.
Beulah picked up the hat and brushed it. As she dusted with her handkerchief the under side of the rim her eyes fell upon two initials stamped into the sweat pad. The letters were "R.B." The owner of the hat called himself Cherokee Street. Why, then, should he have these other initials printed on the pad? There could be only one answer to that question. He was passing under a name that was not his own.
If so, why? Because he was a spy come to get evidence against her people for the express company.
The eyes of the girl blazed. The man had come to ruin her father, to send her brothers to prison, and he was accepting their hospitality while he moled for facts to convict them. To hear the shout of his gay laughter as a calf upset him in the dust was added fuel to the fire of her anger. If he had looked as villainous as Dave Meldrum, she could have stood it better, but any one would have sworn that he was a clean, decent young fellow just out of college.
She called to him. Roy glanced up and came across the corral. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows and the shirt open at the throat. Flowing muscles rippled under the white skin of his forearms as he vaulted the fence to stand beside her. He had the graceful poise of an athlete and the beautiful, trim figure of youth.
Yet he was a spy. Beulah hardened her heart.
"I found your hat in the dust, Mr. Street." She held it out to him upside down, the leather pad lifted by her finger so that the letters stood out.
The rigor of her eyes was a challenge. For a moment, before he caught sight of the initials, he was puzzled at her stiffness. Then his heart lost a beat and hammered wildly. His brain was in a fog and he could find no words of explanation.
"It is your hat, isn't it, Mr.—Street?"
"Yes." He took it from her, put it on, and gulped "Thanks."
She waited to give him a chance to justify himself, but he could find no answer to the charge that she had fixed upon him. Scornfully she turned from him and went to the house.
Miss Rutherford found her father reading a week-old newspaper.
"I've got fresher news than that for you, dad," she said. "I can tell you who this man that calls himself Cherokee Street isn't."
Rutherford looked up quickly. "You mean who he is, Boots."
"No, I mean who he isn't. His name isn't Cherokee Street at all."
"How do you know?"
"Because he is wearing a hat with the initials 'R.B.' stamped in it. I gave him a chance to explain and he only stammered and got white. He hadn't time to think up a lie that would fit."
"Dad burn it, Jess Tighe is right, then. The man is a spy." The ranchman lit a cigar and narrowed his eyes in thought.
"What is he spying here for?"
"I reckon he's a detective of the express company nosing around about that robbery. Some folks think it was pulled off by a bunch up in the hills somewhere."
"By the Rutherford gang?" she quoted.
He looked at her uneasily. The bitterness in her voice put him on the defensive. "Sho, Boots! That's just a way folks have of talking. We've got our enemies. Lots of people hate us because we won't let any one run over us."
She stood straight and slender before him, her eyes fixed in his. "Do they say we robbed the express company?"
"They don't say it out loud if they do—not where I can hear them," he answered grimly.
"Did we?" she flung at him.
His smile was forced. The question disturbed him. That had always been her way, even when she was a small child, to fling herself headlong at difficulties. She had never been the kind to be put off with anything less than the truth.
"I didn't. Did you?" he retorted.
"How about the boys—and Uncle Buck—and Brad Charlton?" she demanded.
"Better ask them if you want to know." With a flare of temper he contradicted himself. "No, you'd better mind your own business, girl. Forget your foolishness and 'tend to your knitting."
"I suppose it isn't my business if my kin go to the penitentiary for train robbery."
"They're not going any such place. If you want to know, I give you my word that none of us Rutherfords have got the gold stolen from the Western Express Company."
"And don't know where it is?"
"Haven't the least idea—not one of us."
She drew a deep breath of relief. More than once her father had kept from her secrets of the family activities, but he had never lied to her.
"Then it doesn't matter about this detective. He can find out nothing against us," she reflected aloud.
"I'm not so sure about that. We've had our troubles and we don't want them aired. There was that shooting scrape Hal got into down at Battle Butte, for instance. Get a little more evidence and the wrong kind of a jury would send him up for it. No, we'll keep an eye on Mr. Cherokee Street, or whatever his name is. Reckon I'll ride over and have a talk with Jess about it."
"Why not tell this man Street that he is not wanted and so be done with it?"
"Because we wouldn't be done with it. Another man would come in his place. We'll keep him here where we can do a little detective work on him, too."
"I don't like it. The thing is underhanded. I hate the fellow. It's not decent to sit at table with a man who is betraying our hospitality," she cried hotly.
"It won't be for long, honey. Just leave him to us. We'll hang up his pelt to dry before we're through with him."
"You don't mean—?"
"No, nothing like that. But he'll crawl out of the park like a whipped cur with its tail between its legs."
The cook stood in the doorway. "Miss Beulah, do you want that meat done in a pot roast?" he asked.
"Yes. I'll show you." She turned at the door. "By the way, dad, I took a snapshot of Mr. Tighe on his porch. I'll develop it to-night and you can take it to him in the morning."
"All right. Don't mention to anybody that matter we were discussing. Act like you've forgotten all about what you found out, Boots."
The girl nodded. "Yes."
––––––––
Chapter IX
The Man on the Bed
Beulah
