She roped the toughest mustang of her "string" in the corral, and ten
minutes later she was jogging down the trail. Halfway down a confused
group of riders--some dozen in all--swarmed up out of the lower trail.
Sheriff McGuire rode out on a sweating horse that told of fierce and long
riding and stopped her.
His salutation was brief; he plunged into the heart of his questions. Had
she noticed anything unusual this morning? Which of the men had been
absent from the house last night? Particularly, who went out with Black
Jack's kid?
"Nobody left the house," she said steadily. "Not a soul."
And she kept a blank eye on the sheriff while he bit his lip and studied
her.
"Kate," he said at length, "I don't blame you for not talking. I don't
suppose I would in your place. But your dad has about reached the end of
the rope with us. If you got any influence, try to change him, because if
he don't do it by his own will, he's going to be changed by force!"
And he rode on up the trail, followed by the silent string of riders on
their grunting, tired horses. She gave them only a careless glance.
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