It is doubtful if any of his friends would have recognized Napoleon
Bonaparte Briggs as he stood against the Oasis bar that night. On his
narrow, slightly grizzled head was an ancient brown derby hat, several
sizes too small. Around his skinny neck was a high, bat-wing collar,
plenty large enough for Napoleon to sink into up to his generous ears,
and his bosom was resplendent in a once-white, starched bosom shirt.
He wore no vest, no necktie, and his old brown coat showed evidences of
its long vacation inside a war-bag. His overalls were glaringly new,
tucked inside a pair of high-heel boots, which emitted an unmistakable
odor of stove polish. Inside the waist-band of his overalls, the butt of
it reposing against the lower end of his shirt-bosom, was a heavy Colt
revolver.
And Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs was drunk. It was seldom that Briggs ever
came to Mesa City on a drunk, and no one had ever seen him dressed in
this manner.
‘I’m goin’ awa-a-ay, fer, fer awa-a-a-ay,’ he sang mournfully. ‘Where
the swee-e-e-et swy-ring-ga bloo-o-oms.’
‘You thinkin’ of takin’ a long trip?’ asked the bartender.
Nap cuffed his derby over one eye and considered the bartender solemnly.
‘Feller, when Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs dudes up thisaway, he’s halfway
there.’
‘Ocean voyage, Nap?’
‘Not unless there’s a cloudburst between here and Cañonville. I aims to
ride a fo’-legged hawse. Gimme another scoop of that liquor, which
tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, and charge it to the house.’
‘Can’t do that, Nap. Jack says to make everythin’ cash until he finds
out what’s to become of this place.’
‘Become of it?’
‘Yeah, you know, since Peter Morgan died.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ sadly.
‘Have one on me.’
Napoleon considered the bartender thoughtfully as the glasses were
placed on the bar, and he saw the bartender take money from his own
pocket and put it in the till.
‘Well, here’s luck, Nap,’ said the bartender. They drank their liquor
straight, and Nap cuffed his hat to the back of his head.
‘I reckon I’ll keep you,’ he said seriously.
‘Keep me?’ queried the bartender.
‘Uh-huh. You’re kinda human. I thought at first that I’d do m’ own
bartendin’, but mebby I won’t. Now, let’s have one on me. I’ve got
money.’
Came the staccato thudding of hoofs, the rattle of spurs on the wooden
sidewalk, and in came Dave Morgan, leading the boys who had been with
him at the Lane ranch. They were all thirsty and mad, it required two
rounds of drinks before they were able to discuss the events of the
evening.
Napoleon moved to the end of the bar, standing in solitary grandeur, as
though not wishing to associate with the common herd in his present
habiliments.
‘My Gawd!’ blurted Spike Cahill, spying Napoleon. ‘There’s the ghost of
old man Briggs lookin’ over his own tombstone!’
‘Oh, to hell with him!’ snorted Dave Morgan, invigorated by the potent
liquor. ‘Let’s decide what’s to be done.’
‘And not a gun in the crowd,’ said Napoleon, noting the empty holsters.
‘O-o-o-oh, I’m go-in’ fer, fer awa-a-ay, where the swee-e-e-et
swy-rin-ga bloo-oo-oms.’
‘What’s the idea of the boiled clothes, Nap?’ asked Spike.
‘Celebratin’ m’ releash from bondage, Spike. I’m through cookin’.’
‘No-o-o-o!’
‘Yessir. Been rasslin’ pots for the 6X6 for over twenty years, and it’s
time I retired.’
Jack Fairweather, manager of the Oasis, came in beside Dave Morgan,
nodding to each of the boys. Fairweather was a small man, about fifty
years old, who had been long in the employ of Peter Morgan.
‘I’ve been tryin’ to get some dope on this situation,’ he told Dave.
‘Nobody seems to know just what is to be done. As far as I can find out,
Peter left no will. He never had any use for a lawyer, and they tell me
at the bank that there is no will, as far as they know. What’s to be
done?’
‘I dunno,’ growled Dave. ‘What’s usually done in a case of this kind?’
‘Well, I suppose the property belongs to his nearest relative. You ought
to know who that would be, Dave.’
‘He didn’t have no real close relatives, Jack. His mother and father are
both dead, and he was the only kid they had. There was just two boys in
the family, my father and Pete’s father. They’re both dead.’
‘Well, it looks as though you owned somethin’, Dave.’
‘I suppose so. As long as there’s no will----’
‘Who the hell says there ain’t?’ demanded Napoleon.
And thus Napoleon became the center of attraction. He had been so long
with the 6X6 that it might be possible he _did_ know something of
interest. Dave Morgan glared at him, but Napoleon was too drunk to mind
a glare.
‘What are you talkin’ about?’ demanded Dave.
‘What do you know about it?’ countered Napoleon. He almost lost his
derby in giving his head a quick jerk.
‘What about a will, Nap?’ asked Fairweather.
‘Oh, thasall right,’ muttered Napoleon foolishly.
‘Did yuh ever see a will?’ asked Spike.
‘I’ve seen a lot of ’em.’
‘A lot of ’em that Peter Morgan wrote?’ asked Fairweather.
‘Nossir.’
‘Drunk as a boiled owl,’ grunted Red Eller. ‘He don’t know what it’s all
about. Let’s have another drink.’
‘I’m not drunk,’ declared Napoleon. ‘I know a will when I shee one.
Gimme shome of yore tannin’ fluid.’
‘What’s the idea of the clothes?’ queried Spike.
‘Duded up f’r a trip to Cañonville.’
‘Napoleon,’ grinned Spike, ‘have you got a girl?’
‘Nossir, I ain’t got no girl; I’m goin’ on ’ficial business to the
county sheat. These are m’ ’ficial clothes. Here’s m’ regards, gents.’
Napoleon drank a full glass of liquor, groped his way to a chair, where
he flopped down heavily. His derby rolled off across the floor, and Red
Eller kicked it the length of the room. But Napoleon was not too drunk
to witness this bit of horseplay, and his hand groped drunkenly for the
butt of his six-shooter. But after several ineffectual efforts to draw
the gun, he made a gesture of despair, slumped down in the chair and
began snoring.
‘If he’d been sober, he’d have killed you, Red,’ declared Spike.
‘If he’d been sober, I wouldn’t have kicked the hat.’
‘Hell!’ snorted Ed Jones. ‘If he had been sober, he wouldn’t have worn
such a damn lookin’ hat.’
‘Who cares what he would have done?’ growled Dave. ‘What I want to know
is, what are we goin’ to do?’
‘Search me,’ said Spike. ‘I know damn well I’m not goin’ back there
ag’in to-night.’
‘Goin’ to craw-fish on this job?’
‘Not craw-fish, Dave. Old man Lane won’t be there; so what could we gain
by goin’ back?’
‘I reckon that’s true.’
Dave explained to Fairweather what had taken place at the Lane ranch,
but the gambler had no suggestions to offer.
‘I’ll ride down in the mornin’ and collect the guns,’ offered Spike.
‘I’m not scared. They said we could have ’em in daylight.’
Red Eller and Ed Jones decided that they wanted to play a little poker,
and Dave Morgan wanted to go home; so Dave went away alone. Others
drifted in and the games filled up, while Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs
slept off his jag, and awoke with a stiff neck and the disposition of a
grizzly.
He found the brim of his derby hat, which Red Eller had kicked loose
from its crown, and it pained him greatly. He accepted a drink, went out
to his horse, which he mounted and headed for Cañonville.
‘If that horse ever bucks, that collar will slice old Briggs’s ears
off,’ declared Spike Cahill. ‘Funny old coot. Him and Pete Morgan was
pretty close friends, even if they did cuss each other out at least once
a day.’
‘What do you suppose he meant--about that will?’ asked Jack Fairweather.
‘Liquor talkin’. Old Briggs would rather argue than eat. The minute
somebody says “there is,” old Briggs is sure to say “there ain’t.” But I
sure don’t sabe that boiled shirt and collar and the hard hat.’
* * * * *
It was three days after the voluntary surrender of Paul Lane and his
son, when Hashknife, Rex, and Lem Sheeley rode to Mesa City from the
Lane ranch. Spike Cahill had come to the ranch the day after their
attempt to capture Paul Lane and recovered their guns. If Spike bore any
malice toward Hashknife, Sleepy, or Rex he failed to show it, but at
that time he did not know that Paul Lane had surrendered to the sheriff.
Both men had sworn that they were innocent of the charge, and they both
denied shooting Noah Evans, who was slowly recovering. Long Lane swore
he had not seen Ben Leach after he left the Oasis saloon, and that he
did not take Ben’s horse and gun.
Of course, no one believed them, and every one knew that they had
surrendered to the law rather than take a chance of being lynched. Their
guilt was so firmly fixed in the eyes of the cattlemen that any twelve
men in the county would have convicted them without leaving the
jury-box.
Sleepy urged Hashknife to forget the case. As far as he could see there
was nothing to keep them in the Black Horse range any longer, and Sleepy
was anxious to get settled in a job for the winter.
But Hashknife was not satisfied. The shooting of Noah Evans was one
thing unexplained. After talking with Paul Lane, he was satisfied that
neither the old man nor his son was bitter enough against the 6X6 to
bushwhack one of that outfit, especially when the light was so bad that
they could not identify their target.
And there was Rex Morgan, whom Sleepy had dubbed ‘The _Orejano_.’ Who in
Mesa City had sent money to his mother? wondered Hashknife. And that was
the reason why Hashknife, Rex, and the sheriff had ridden to Mesa City.
Hashknife had talked it over with Lem Sheeley, and they decided to seek
information at the Mesa City Bank.
Jim Harker, the Mesa City banker, a small, wiry man, with heavy glasses,
welcomed them cordially. He had known the sheriff for years.
‘Well, what’s on your mind, Lem?’ he asked, after Lem had introduced the
others.
‘Peter Morgan banked with you, didn’t he, Jim?’
The banker smiled slowly. ‘What banking he did--yes.’
‘What do yuh mean by that, Jim?’
‘He didn’t do much banking, Lem. Peter Morgan was rather a queer person,
and preferred having his money nearer than a bank vault.’
‘You mean, he kept it at the ranch?’
‘I suspect he did, Lem.’
‘Well, here’s somethin’ we want to find out, Jim.’ And Lem explained
about Rex’s mother receiving the seventy-five-dollar check. The banker
listened closely, and when Lem finished he shook his head thoughtfully.
‘Was that the only check from here that you have seen?’ he asked Rex.
‘That was the only one, Mr. Harker. But I feel sure that my mother
received money from some one.’
‘The name of Morgan kinda had us guessin’,’ said Lem.
The banker smiled slowly, thoughtfully.
‘I don’t suppose I’d be violating any confidence, now that Peter Morgan
is dead,’ he said, ‘but the fact of the matter is this--Peter Morgan
could not write.’
‘Couldn’t write?’ pondered Lem.
‘He had no education whatever. In fact, when he wished to draw a check,
I signed his name for him. So that answers your question regarding that
particular check.’
‘Could it have been Dave Morgan?’ asked Hashknife.
The banker shook his head quickly. ‘No. Dave Morgan closed his account
with us several months ago. I think I was the only one in this country
who knew that Peter Morgan could not write. He was very sensitive about
it. I don’t believe Dave Morgan knew it. When there were any papers to
be signed, Peter always brought them to me.’
‘You never heard him mention a will, did yuh?’ asked Hashknife.
‘No, I never did. I’m sure I should have known about it if there had
been one. I understand you have Paul Lane in jail for murdering Peter.’
‘Yeah, he’s down there,’ sighed Lem.
‘Any question about his guilt, Lem?’
‘I hope so, Jim. I dunno what defense the old man will put up. If he
wasn’t a nester, he might get off. Yuh see, he warned Peter to keep away
from his place. There ain’t no direct evidence that Morgan was killed on
the Lane ranch, but the jury will probably think he was.’
‘How is Noah Evans getting along?’
‘Kinda slow. The doctor seems to think he’s out of danger. I reckon he
is; he cusses all the time.’
They thanked the banker for his information. Lem had other business to
transact; so they left him in Mesa City and rode back to the ranch.
Hashknife was disappointed. He had expected some information from the
banker which might be of some value to him, but, as far as he could see,
they were up against a blank wall.
Rex had nothing to offer. He couldn’t remember what the signature on
that check looked like.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he told Hashknife.
‘I can’t stay here all my life. I haven’t any money, and no place to go.
Rather a puzzling situation, isn’t it?’
‘Well, we’re in the same boat,’ smiled Hashknife. ‘But our case is a
little different, except that we can’t all pull out and leave that girl
here alone. The Lanes haven’t any money, either. It looks to me as
though we’ve all got to stay here and see what works out. Me and Sleepy
have enough for a grubstake for all of us, I reckon.’
‘Well, I suppose we’ll have to do something like that.’
‘Sure. But the limb of the law waves so damn slow in a country like this
that we’ll wear the seats out of our pants waitin’ for them to try the
Lane family for murder. I reckon we’ll just stick around and see what
happens.’
They talked it over with Nan and Sleepy at the ranch. Nan wanted to go
to Cañonville and try for a job.
‘I might get work in a restaurant,’ she said. ‘That would relieve you
boys of my presence. I didn’t realize the situation until now.’
‘You are not going to work in any restaurant,’ declared Rex warmly. ‘We
can get along out here. I’ve still got my five dollars.’
‘You bloated financier!’ exploded Sleepy. ‘If you knew anythin’ about
poker, I’d take that five away from yuh.’
‘I don’t know anything about poker,’ said Rex quickly, ‘but if you want
the five, I’ll give it to you, Sleepy.’
‘Thank yuh,’ grunted Sleepy, rather taken back by Rex’s generosity. ‘I
reckon yore all right, kid; we’ll get along.’
‘Can yuh imagine that?’ he asked Hashknife a little later on.
‘Rex is all right, Sleepy.’
‘Shore, he’s all right. Pretty heavy on education, but he’ll get that
knocked out of him in a short time. Do yuh know, I’ve got a hunch that
Nan thinks quite a lot of him.’
‘She’s sorry for him.’
‘Yeah, and he’s sorry for her. He looks at her like a dyin’ calf in the
spring thaw.’
They took care of their horses and wandered back to the house, where
they found Nan and Rex on the porch, talking confidentially. Nan seemed
very determined about something, and Rex seemed troubled. Hashknife
sprawled on the steps and rolled a cigarette.
‘I want to tell you something, Hashknife,’ said Nan. ‘Rex don’t think I
should, but----’
‘I wouldn’t,’ said Rex firmly.
‘But I think you boys understand,’ said Nan. ‘Oh, it won’t hurt
anything, Rex--not now. We haven’t told anybody, except my father.’
‘Go ahead,’ urged Hashknife. ‘I suppose it’s about findin’ Peter
Morgan’s body, ain’t it? And sendin’ it home on the horse?’
Nan gasped, staring at Hashknife. ‘What--why, how did you know?’
‘Guessed it, Nan. Lem found you and Rex in the corral. Rex had fainted.
And then Lem found Peter Morgan’s six-gun in the corral. It wasn’t more
than an hour or so later that the body of Morgan came to the 6X6.’
‘And you just guessed it?’ asked Nan wonderingly.
‘Somethin’ like that, Nan. I figured that you and Rex had a secret
between yuh. Would yuh mind takin’ me down to the corral and showin’ me
just how the body lay, and all that?’
‘And--and you don’t blame us for what we done?’ asked Nan.
‘Certainly not; I’d have done the same. C’mon.’
They all went down to the corral, where Nan explained all about the
position of the body, and how they had secured the horse from the
willows across the stream and had managed to rope the body to the
saddle.
Hashknife listened closely, questioning both of them as to small
details, and even examined the dust closely, where Peter Morgan’s body
had lain. Nan pointed out the place where the horse had been tied, and
Rex took Hashknife over to the spot where he secured the horse.
The ground was fairly soft along the creek, and Hashknife was able to
distinguish the tracks of the shod horse.
‘Mr. Morgan must have left his horse here while he went over to the
corner of the stable,’ said Rex.
Hashknife grunted, as he studied the tracks closely. From where they
stood, the horse would have been invisible to any one at the
ranch-house. The presumption would have been that Morgan rode up to the
willows from that side of the creek, not taking any chances of being
seen; but the tracks showed that the horse had crossed the stream twice;
one set of tracks, of course, being made when Rex took the animal over
to the corral. It proved that the rider had come in past the corral,
crossed the creek, and tied the horse over there.
They came back to the bank of the little creek, where Hashknife stopped
again to examine the tracks. The stream was about four feet wide and two
feet deep at this point. Rex sprang across and went back to the corral
fence, while Hashknife squatted on his heels on the creek bank.
Suddenly he got to his feet and looked down the stream, where the water
swung around an undercut bank, practically undermining a heavy growth of
willows. Something had attracted his attention, and he shoved down
through the brush to _this_ spot, where he sprawled along the bank,
reaching down in the water.
After some little effort he was able to draw out the object, which he
lugged back to a clear space. It was a Navajo rug, about four feet wide
and five feet long, which had been rolled tightly and tied at both ends
with whang-leather strings.
Hashknife cut the strings and unrolled the rug. It was rather difficult
to tell how long the rug had been in the water. It was rather
discolored, but the pattern was clear enough. The two ends of the rug
were of red and gray design, while the center was dead black, with a
jagged strip of white, representing the Navajo idea of lightning.
Hashknife carried the rug over to the corral, where he spread it out on
the ground. It was a very distinctive pattern, and Nan was sure she had
never seen it before. Just why it was in the creek, none of them were
able to say. It was not a rug that any one would discard. He hung it
over the top-pole of the corral to dry out, and left it there, dripping
down across the poles.
‘That must have been a beautiful rug,’ sighed Nan. ‘I have always
admired Navajo rugs, but we have always been too poor to buy one.’
‘You can have that one,’ smiled Hashknife. ‘Probably take a lot of
washin’ to clean it up. Lot of that silt has soaked up in it, and it’ll
take time to get it out. Might be better to let it dry, and then beat it
out.’
‘What would they do to us if they knew what we had done?’ asked Rex
anxiously.
‘I dunno,’ smiled Hashknife. ‘Better not tell anybody else. It would be
a point for the prosecution, yuh know. It would prove just where Peter
Morgan was killed. It’s too bad yuh didn’t think to get that gun.’
‘We were too excited to think of anything except to get the body away
from here,’ said Nan.
‘I’ll betcha. That was shore some job for you two. Now, we’ll just
forget all that.’
It was about an hour later when Lem Sheeley rode in at the ranch. Nan
was busy in the kitchen, but the three men were on the porch to meet
him.
‘I’ve got a little information for yuh,’ said the sheriff, declining to
dismount. ‘After you boys left town, Jim Harker called me back to the
bank. Yuh see, bankers are kinda close when it comes to talkin’ about
things, and he didn’t know yuh very well.
‘Here’s what he told me, boys. Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs is the one who
has been sendin’ money to a Mary Morgan. He has been sendin’ it for
years. Jim said he never asked Nap about it, ’cause he figured it wasn’t
his business.
‘He said he wondered where Briggs got the money, until one day Peter
Morgan told him that Briggs had an interest in the 6X6. Now, mebby yuh
can find out from Briggs what it’s all about, Hashknife. Harker don’t
know a thing about it, except that Briggs kept a balance in the bank,
and mostly every month he sent a check away. Harker says he don’t know
any Mary Morgan.’
‘Old man Briggs is the cook at the 6X6, ain’t he, Lem?’ asked Hashknife.
‘Yeah, a queer old pelican. Been with the 6X6 since these hills were
holes in the ground. Don’t start any argument, ’cause it won’t get yuh
anywhere with him. I wish yuh luck in findin’ out anythin’. Just thought
mebby you’d like to know; so I dropped in. Got to get back before dark.’
Hashknife thanked him for the information, and Lem rode on toward
Cañonville.
‘It shore is worse tangled than ever now,’ said Hashknife. ‘I reckon the
name Morgan is just a coincidence in this case, Rex. But just where does
Briggs come in on it?’
‘Oh, I suppose we’ll never find out,’ sighed Rex. ‘But after all, what
difference does it make? It can’t affect my future in any way. Still,
I’d like to know. Don’t you see the position I am in? Suppose’--Rex
hesitated for a moment--‘suppose I wanted to marry a girl, and she asked
me about my father?’
‘Tell her he died before you was born,’ advised Hashknife.
‘But that would be a lie.’
‘How do you know?’
‘But I couldn’t prove it, Hashknife.’
‘Any girl who likes you well enough to marry yuh won’t make yuh prove
when yore father died, kid.’
‘But I don’t even know I had a father.’
‘Well, yuh won’t have to prove that. Just forget that yuh went through
life kinda one-sided on parents. And don’t argue with me. I want to set
down and think about Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs and a dirty Navajo rug.’
Sleepy went into the house, where he flopped on the old couch, burying
his nose in an old magazine, while Rex sat down on a corner of the
porch, watching the changing lights on the hills as the sun sank lower
in the west.
It was as though a painter, unsatisfied with an effect, would swiftly
blot out a streak of gold and draw in a full brush of violet; only to
change it to a deep mauve and then to an opaque cobalt; striking new
highlights with glowing gold.
Farther to the north a great flock of birds, like a lot of black sheets
of paper caught in a whirlwind, spiraled up from among the hills, always
traveling in circles. Rex watched them, fascinated. They did not seem to
flap their wings, but mounted higher and higher. Some of them circled
back to earth, but seemed to come back, flapping their wings, as though
in haste to gain altitude.
‘What kind of birds are those, Hashknife?’ asked Rex.
‘Buzzards,’ he said indifferently.
‘I tried to count them, but they weave back and forth so swiftly, and
each one looks like the other.’
Hashknife relaxed and reached for his cigarette papers.
‘Scavengers, Rex; a big bird who smells death, they say. But I don’t
believe it, because I’ve fooled ’em. I’ve stretched out on the desert,
played dead, and had them down so close I pulled feathers out of their
tails.’
‘Is there something dead over there, Hashknife?’
‘Undoubtedly. They’ve been having a feast, and are pulling out before
dark. Mebby a coyote or two came along and started an argument.’
‘Dead cow, do you suppose?’
Hashknife squinted quizzically at the gyrating flock, slowly mounting
higher. They were not splitting up, as a flock usually does, when the
feast is over; but rather they were acting as though something had
interrupted them. Hashknife grinned and turned to Rex.
‘Let’s take a rifle and go over there, kid. It’s in a little swale off
the road, and we might knock over a coyote.’
Rex was willing. Hashknife called to Sleepy, asking him to go along.
‘Goin’ to ride over?’ asked Sleepy.
‘It’s only a little ways,’ replied Hashknife.
‘Count me out. I wouldn’t walk a mile for all the coyotes in Arizona.’
Hashknife took Paul Lane’s thirty-thirty, and they walked up the road,
while the buzzards still circled. It was a little over a mile to where
they left the road, and about a quarter of a mile from where Ben Leach
had been killed.
From the road they went cautiously through the brushy swale, circling
the thickets of mesquite. Suddenly a coyote went streaking across the
swale, almost invisible in the waning light. Hashknife stepped back,
swinging up the Winchester, and as the animal started up the slope of
the hill on the opposite side of the swale, the rifle cracked sharply
and the coyote gave a convulsive sideways leap, landed in a Spanish
dagger, from whence it went yipping along through the brush, telling the
world in coyote language what it thought of a man who would drive a
thirty-thirty bullet in front of the nose of any well-meaning coyote.
‘Led him too much,’ laughed Hashknife. ‘Didja see him set down in that
dagger? Talk about anythin’ bein’ full of pins and needles! I had a
hunch that some coyotes had chased them buzzards from their supper.’
They circled another clump of mesquite and found what had attracted the
scavengers. It was what was left of a blue-roan horse, which was still
wearing a saddle and bridle. The buzzards and coyotes had made a sorry
mess of it, but the saddle and bridle were still intact.
With his pocket-knife, Hashknife cut the _latigo_, and drew the saddle
away from the carcass. It was a good grade of stock saddle, with stamped
seat and fenders. The skin of the animal had been literally torn to
shreds, obliterating the brand, but leaving enough to identify its
color.
Hashknife examined the head of the animal for possible bullet holes, but
found none. Upon closer examination, however, he found that the horse’s
shoulder had been broken. The bridle reins were tangled about the other
leg, drawing the head of the animal sharply downward.
No doubt the coyotes had pulled the body about to some extent, but
Hashknife was able to read the signs fairly plain.
‘I reckon this was Ben Leach’s horse,’ he told Rex. ‘It busted its
shoulder in some way, leavin’ it to hobble on three legs until the reins
got tangled in the other front leg and threw it. Mebby the fall broke
its neck, or mebby it just couldn’t get up, and the coyotes finished
it.’
‘Does it mean anything?’ asked Rex.
‘Well, it means that Walter Lane didn’t steal the horse, which is one
point in his favor.’
Hashknife hung the saddle in a mesquite thicket, and they went back
home, leaving the way clear for the coyotes to continue their
interrupted meal. The buzzards had disappeared by this time.
‘If it hadn’t been for those buzzards, we should never have found that
horse,’ said Rex.
‘That’s true,’ thoughtfully. ‘Sometimes it’s a good plan to foller the
buzzards, kid. Yuh never can tell what yuh might find.’