Thady Shea had learned enough, also, to notice a few such things. The brand was a queer mark, a queer zig-zag which to him meant nothing. The animal’s saddle blanket had been an Indian rug, woven for such use. The bridle had also been woven. Upon the suitcase, however, there was no mark of ownership.
“H’m! Sounds like a Navaho brand,” commented the professor, sagely.
At this point, Thady Shea rose and abruptly closed the discussion. The approaching automobile had drawn up.
From the car alighted Sandy Mackintavers, who stood for a moment staring at the buckboard; Old Man Durfee went on with the car to the garage, in the rear of the ranch house. Thady Shea did not need the professor’s vouchsafed admonition to know who this square-hewn man was, this man with the square jaw and mouth and figure, this man who turned from the buckboard and came dourly up to the veranda.
“Who’s here?” Mackintavers stood in the screen doorway.
“You’re Mr. Mackintavers?” Theatricalisms fell away from Thady Shea. He fumbled in his pocket. He produced the check which he had previously filled out. He extended it. “This belongs to you, I think. There was some mistake in the matter. Your check was cashed through a misapprehension.”
Mackintavers swept Thady Shea with keen, puzzled eyes; then he glanced at the check.
His square mouth contracted slightly at the corners. Otherwise, not a muscle moved in his face. After an instant he folded the check and glanced up at the professor.
“No luck with the thief,” he said, curtly. “That is, unless some of the boys bring in news. There was an accident on the Magdalena trail this morning—a fool Navaho buck was hit by the flivver from Doniphan’s ranch. Knocked him and his cayuse to glory. I thought for a time he was our man, but telephoned into town from Doniphan’s and found otherwise. Took a look at the horse to make sure. Nothing doing.”
His eyes went back to Thady Shea. He held open the door and gestured.