"Well, I never entertained such a suspicion," was all the detective vouchsafed in reply. Then he glanced at the man on the ground.
"See, the fellow is dying."
It was true. Sam Swart, the miserable outlaw, was swiftly passing away. Half an hour later, when Elliston and the detective returned to their buggy, the would-be murderer of Dyke Darrel lay cold in death under the farmer's shed.
A serious expression pervaded the face of Dyke Darrel, and he scarcely spoke during the drive back to town.
"Did you find your man?" queried the landlord, when our friends returned.
"Yes."
Elliston entered into an explanation, while Dyke Darrel went up to his room and threw himself into a chair in a thoughtful attitude. His brow became corrugated, and it was evident that the detective was enjoying a spell of the deepest perplexity.
"It must be that the fellow's mind wandered," mused Dyke Darrel. "Of course I cannot accept as evidence the ragged, half-conscious utterances of a dying man. He spoke of Nick and the boy. There may be something in that. The boy? Who could that be but Martin Skidway? I've suspected him; he is capable of anything in the criminal line. It may be well for me to go to Chicago and visit Martin's Aunt Scarlet. How that woman hates me, simply because I was the means of breaking up a gang of spurious money makers, of whom old Dan Scarlet was the chief. Well, well, the ways of the world are curious enough. By the way, I haven't sent that line to Nell yet. The girl will feel worried if I don't write."
Then, drawing several postals from his pocket, Dyke Darrel wrote a few lines on one with a pencil, and addressed it to "Miss Nell Darrel, Woodburg."
Just then Elliston entered.