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134 “A little five-year-old girl and her mother; nothing else worth seeing.”

“Nothing else,” considered the sheriff, “but that's quite a lot. Maybe his wife could tell me where he's going? Give me an idea where I might call on him?”

“Partner, you can't see her.”

“Can't?”

“No, by God!”

“H-m-m!” murmured the sheriff. He watched the big man plant himself, swaying a little on his feet as though poising for action, and beside him a slightly smaller figure not less determined.

“That girl in there is old man Cumberlan's daughter,” said Daniels, “and no matter what her—what Dan Barry may be, Kate Cumberland is white folks.”

The sheriff remembered what Vic had said of yellow hair and soft blue eyes.

“Leastways,” he said, “she seems to have a sort of way with the men.”

“Sheriff you're on a cold trail,” said Haines. “Inside that house is just a heart-broken girl and her baby. If you want to see them—go ahead!”

“She might know something,” mused the sheriff, “and I s'pose I'd ought to pry it out of her right now: but I don't care for that sort of pickin's.” He repeated softly: “A girl and a baby!” and turned on his heel. “All right, boys, climb your hosses. Two of you take Mat. We'll bury him where we put Harry. I guess we can pack him that far.”