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most honest of answers. “No,” he said then, a strange implacability in his voice, “Not even then. Because you really aren’t worth anything, Frank—not even an hour’s unhappiness for Carrie.”
    Frank said gently, “More than that, Judge,” and put his horse in motion and moved on down the quiet street. I’ve gone a long way down the road if he thinks that , he reflected bitterly. And this judgment, too, like Carrie’s, would have to wait on time, until the old label had worn off, he knew.
    He turned at the corner now, heading for the main four-corners. The cool mountain evening was all around him, smelling of resin and the river, full of the low rush of the distant river, too. He paused at the four-comers, looking across at the Pleasant Hour Saloon in the middle of the block. Chances were that Hannan, if he were still in town, would be there, and Frank understood now that his business with the sheriff was urgent. He angled across the street to the Pleasant Hour’s tie-rail, and before dismounting he looked over the line of ponies racked there. Several of them bore Rhino Hulst’s J-1 brand, and one of them was Hugh Nunnally’s. The crew was back, and with them, he knew, lay the power to still Hannan’s curiosity.
    Shouldering his way through the swing doors, he tramped over to the long bar on his right, looking over the big, brightly lit room. Several rear tables were occupied by poker players. A monte game just beyond the bar had drawn a small crowd, and in that crowd Frank saw the big stoop-shouldered frame of Buck Hannan. Beyond, at one of the poker tables, he saw Rhino’s bunch—Pete Faraday, Albie Beecham, Morg Lister, and Bill Talley, with Hugh Nunnally, whose broad back was to the door.
    The two McGarrity brothers were at the bar, and Frank halted beside Jonas, the younger brother. Jonas was a tall, workworn man in the rough clothes of a ranch hand; John, the older brother, wore a neat black suit, and his mild, cheerful face made him look years younger than his brother. Together, they operated a growing freighting company, and themselves worked at jobs which ranged from teamstering to bookkeeping, with a stubborn skill.
    Jonas had seen Frank in the mirror of the back bar, and his morose face broke in the start of a smile. “I been needin’ you, Frank,” he said, turning now. “We can use some new teams.”
    â€œSee Rhino,” Frank said. He asked the bartender for whiskey.
    John McGarrity leaned back and said around Jonas, “Hell with Rhino. The last horse we bought from him died of sand colic in a week.”
    Frank shook his head and smiled to take the edge off his refusal. “I’ve quit, gents. You’re on your own.” He took his whiskey and moved back through the room, hearing Jonas swear in mild frustration. As he had anticipated, Buck Hannan broke away from the monte game watchers and intercepted him. “In a hurry, Frank?”
    Frank halted. Buck Hannan was a big, soft, smooth-faced man of fifty, pleasant with the meaningless affability of an elected public servant, but his sharp gray eyes were alert and searching. He was coatless, his black trousers tucked into burnished half-boots, and he wore no badge of office on his checked shirt.
    He shook hands and looked about him and spotted an empty gaming table. Still holding Frank’s hand, he said, “Let’s sit down. Thought you might want to know about Rob.”
    Frank said he did, and they took chairs. Frank saw Rhino’s bunch watching him; Pete Faraday, Rhino’s half-breed Ute wagon-master, leaned across his cards and murmured something to Hugh Nunnally, whose square and blocky face turned toward Frank.
    Hannan offered Frank a cigar, which he refused, lighted one himself, and then said in a respectful voice, “I know how you feel about this, Frank. I know—”
    â€œHow do I?” Frank cut in.
    Buck Hannan’s