“Probably,” said Frank, with a feeling of relief. “It’s possible, too, that some one besides Blunt was doing that shooting. There may be others in this vicinity, don’t you think?”
“Sure thing, but it’s hardly likely. I don’t believe there’s a soul nearer our camp than Dolliver’s.”
“Some cowboy might be riding down Mohave Cañon from the Fiddleback Ranch.”
“Yes; but I don’t know what he’d find to shoot at. Cowboys don’t carry revolvers all the time, like they used to; and, if a Fiddleback man was going to town, he certainly wouldn’t pack a six-shooter. But that couldn’t have been Blunt doing the shooting. He wasn’t on the track of Lenning and Shoup, at last accounts.”
“Blunt has had plenty of time to pick up the trail. He’s a determined chap when he sets out to do anything.”
“Hotch jumped at the conclusion that Lenning and Shoup were doing the shooting. But if they didn’t have anything to shoot with, Hotch, of course, is wrong. Whoever pulled the trigger was easily satisfied. Only one shot was fired.”
Just at that moment, Merriwell glimpsed something a few yards to the right of him. It was an object that lay on the ground and gleamed brightly in the sun. Swerving to one side, he picked the object up.
“What have you found, pard?” called Bleeker.
“An empty sardine tin,” Frank reported.
“That’s right,” said Bleeker, coming up and peering at the flat can with its ragged flap. “It’s bright and new, and hasn’t lain where you found it for very long. We gave Lenning and Shoup a couple of tins of sardines, and I reckon they must have camped somewhere near this place last night.”