“I don’t know jest what’s the matter, compadre,” was the guarded response, “but I allow I’ve got the tail end of a whalin’ big mystery. I’ve come to you for help in figgerin’ it out.”
CHAPTER VIII.
FORTUNE’S MYSTERY.
Jimmie walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“I’m all in a takin’ over what I’ve found out,” he remarked, “but in spite o’ that, I could slop down on this bunk and sleep to beat four of a kind. Er-wow!” and he threw up his arms and yawned. “Ain’t it orful,” he went on, “to be so chock full of agitatin’ things and yet feel like layin’ right down on ’em and poundin’ your ear?”
“If you’ve got anything in your system, Jimmie,” said Owen, “now is your chance to get it out. When you’ve done that, you can crawl in between those blankets and sleep as long as you please.”
“Mebby I won’t have no chanst to sleep. It all depends on how you figger out my diskiveries. Fust off, pard, I’ve found where Dirk Hibbard went when he hiked off with the jedge’s car. It wasn’t no joy ride, you can gamble, and he wasn’t jest tryin’ out the machine to see what was wrong with it. He was acrost the mountain palaverin’ with Tom Long, who’s got a past like a bandit.”
“Tom Long? Never heard of him.”
“That cimiroon has been keepin’ purty quiet for some sort of a while, and I opine he’s about due to break out. If there’s a train robbery or any other kind of a hold-up anywheres on this part o’ the range, fust thing the sher’ff does is to go inquirin’ for Tom Long, otherwise Chantay Seeche Tom. That’s the sort of a maverick he is. Whyever d’you suppose Hibbard went acrost the mountain to talk to a feller like that?”