neither clothing, food, nor the money that he knew to be in Annersley's
wallet in the bedroom. The sun burned down upon his unprotected head,
but he did not feel it. He felt nothing save the burning ache in his
throat and a hope that the sheriff would arrest the men who had killed
his pop. He had great faith in the sheriff, who, as Annersley had told
him, was the law. The law punished evildoers. The men who had killed
pop would be hung--Pete was sure of that!

Hatless, burning with fever and thirst, he arrived at the store in
Concho late in the afternoon. A friendly cowboy from the low country
joshed him about his warlike appearance. Young Pete was too exhausted
to retort. He marched into the store, told the storekeeper what had
happened, and asked for the sheriff. The storekeeper saw that there
was something gravely wrong with Pete. His face was flushed and his
eyes altogether too bright. He insisted on going at once to the
sheriff's office.

"Now, you set down and rest. Just stay right here and keep your eye on
things out front--and I'll go get the sheriff." And the storekeeper
coaxed and soothed Pete into giving up his rifles. Promising to return
at once, the storekeeper set out on his errand, shaking his head
gravely. Annersley had been a good man, a man who commanded affection
and respect from most persons. And now the T-Bar-T men "had got him."
The storekeeper was not half so surprised as he was grieved. He had
had an idea that something like this might happen. It was a cattle
country, and Annersley had been the only homesteader within miles of
Concho. "I wonder just how much of this the sheriff knows already," he
soliloquized. "It's mighty tough on the kid."

When Sheriff Sutton and the storekeeper entered the store they found