Having reached this conclusion with the simple logic of a savage working out a trail, Turkey placed the deeds in his pocket and continued his search; but he found nothing more connected with French, nor were there any other papers which looked suspicious. And so Turkey reluctantly closed the safe, replaced the key where he had found it, reflecting that it might come in handy again, and departed as he had come.
When he reached his shack he got into his bunk as being a position favorable to profound thought, but went to sleep before he thought of anything. In the morning breakfast absorbed his mental faculties until it was consumed. Then he lit a smoke and read all the papers through.
Those connected with Garland were obvious enough, self-explanatory, but he did not know just what to do with them. If he made them public he would have to account for his possession of them. That would not do. He would keep them for a while and see what turned up.
But the deeds were a different matter. They represented ownership, and so should be in the hands of his sister-in-law whom he had never seen. Why hadn't Braden or French given her these deeds? Why had Braden swiped them from French? The girl had been living on the land, so that she knew it belonged to her. Maybe, now that French was dead, that old skunk Braden was going to pretend that he never sold her father the place at all. But from what he, Turkey, knew of the old Tetreau lay-out, it wasn't worth going to much trouble about.
Suddenly Turkey whistled softly and swore to himself. He must be a bonehead! Braden wanted to get hold of that land because it was near his coal. Sure! That was it. The darn, old crook, trying to hold out on a girl after he'd made a strike like that on his own land! Why, the blanked, double-dashed old hog! Angus' wife must have the deeds at once, or Braden might put something over on her. It wouldn't do to trust the mail or any one else. He hated to go to the ranch, but he must give them to her himself.
Turkey thereupon saddled his blue mare and clattered away. The mare was in high spirits, the morning cool, and youth and good health surged in Turkey's veins. As he rode he sang classics of the old frontier which for excellent reasons have never been embalmed in type. Within a couple of miles of his destination the road dipped down to a wooden flat, crossed a creek and mounted a steep grade. Turkey, walking the blue mare, was half way up when a horse and rider appeared at the top. To his amazement they bore down on him at a run, and to his greater amazement the rider was a girl. For anybody to run a horse down that grade was to tempt Providence. But in a moment he realized that the horse was running away.
The girl had given up trying to hold him, and was letting him run. The animal, a powerful bay, had the bit, and his eyes showed white. His rider was sitting still, holding the horn with one hand, trying to adjust her body to the thumping jar of the downhill run. She was staying with it gamely, and though her face was white her mouth was set. She was a complete stranger to Turkey.
The latter was not foolish enough to endeavor to stop a runaway head on, on a grade. He wheeled his mare in to the bank, giving right-of-way.
"Stay with it!" he yelled. "I'll get you at the bottom!" And as the big bay thundered past he regained the road and sent the mare down after the runaway at a pace which even he considered risky.
He reached the bottom some fifty yards behind the bay, and for the first time called on the real speed of the mare. She overhauled rapidly, but as he drew nearly level and reached for the rein, the bay swerved, abandoned the road and took to the brush. But the blue mare was accustomed to hard riding after wild, long-legged steers up and down brush-covered coulees. She stuck to the bay, through an undergrowth that slashed and whipped, and once more brought Turkey level. This time he got a hold, and dragged the bay to a halt.