“He was drowned, I remember,” Broome spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“Either that, or this fellow that calls himself Gard did for him, as he did for Lundy. Arnold was a good man. Lord! When I think the other fellow’s hanging around here with Larch this minute—”
“He ain’t here;” Broome said. “He went off yest’day.”
“Fury! Where to?”
“I d’ know. He rode off some time in th’ afternoon. He’d lost somethin’ when we was workin’ out them blame cows, an’ was mighty cut up, I heard. An’ when he couldn’t find it he went off.”
“Skipped—blast it!” Westcott seemed to consider.
“I know what he lost, all right,” he went on. “Good thing for him Sandy Larch didn’t find it. But I’ll land him all right, too ... But that ain’t the point,” the lawyer continued. “The point is this: He can’t hold that claim. There’s nothing to keep us from walking in and taking possession, if you think you can find it.”
“You bet your life I can find it,” Broome swore.
“First, though,” Westcott spoke again, “I want to go up to Phoenix. I can get the noon train. And I’m going to fix our Mister Gard—his name was Barker in those days—as he ought to be fixed. He won’t be out of reach so that the authorities can’t find him, and he won’t get away this time. Then I’ll go down to Tucson and file that claim right. Since he’s got no legal status anyone can do that. Then I’ll come back here and we’ll talk about the rest.”
“Look a’ here,” Broome interrupted, “You don’t do no filin’ till I’m erlong, or you never gits to where the pay-streak is. You’ve gotter do some work on it anyway, before you kin file legal.”