“I don’t know who it was—Mac didn’t say. But that’s what they did. When the boys got together and pulled Galt out from under the express stuff where they’d buried him, they found the coffin open and the body gone.”
Sprague had been listening intently.
“This seems to be something worth while, Maxwell,” he cut in. “How much time do we have to waste here?”
“Just a minute. Go on, Connolly.”
“That’s all,” said the fat despatcher. “The train’s at Corona now, and they’ve put Johnny Galt off; and—and the coffin. Mac’s asking for orders.”
“Give them their orders and let them go, and then clear for my special. I’ve sent for Harding and a posse, and we’ll chase out after this thing while the trail is warm. You’ll go along, won’t you, Calvin?” turning to the stop-over guest.
The man from Washington laughed genially.
“You couldn’t scare me off with a fire-hose—not until I have seen this little mystery of yours cleared up. Let’s be doing.”
Five minutes farther along the two-car special train had been made up and was clanking out over the switches in the eastern yard. As the last of the switch-lights were flicking past the windows, a big bearded man came in from the car ahead and Maxwell introduced him.
“Sprague, this is Sheriff Harding. Harding, shake hands with my friend, Mr. Sprague, of the Department of Agriculture, Washington, and then sit down and we’ll thrash this thing out. You’ve heard the story?”