“Yes.” Cervantes gave him a questioning glance.
“Uh-huh—thought so! Pincher Brady’s brother. That explains how they came to hire Pincher for their dirty work. But they wouldn’t bring Pincher here simply to get you, would they? No. Quite a nice, nifty little scheme on foot, Miguel. By the way, I don’t suppose this Jake Harper is a decrepit old party who was a scout for Reno during the Indian wars?”
“You know him, then?”
“Know of him, more or less.” Robinson chuckled silently. “Think I’ll go over to his place and have a chat. What’s that crossroads ahead?”
“Straight on to the Running Dog and Harper’s,” responded Cervantes. “We turn off to the left. You don’t mean you’re not going with me?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die—I’m not,” and Robinson grinned. “But I’ll be along in a day or two if I don’t meet bad luck. By the way, who had anything to do with Frank’s being sent to the pen?”
A black frown settled on the face of Cervantes.
“Nobody,” he answered. “We don’t know a thing against any one. Two detectives——”
“Oh, I see,” said Robinson airily. “Well, I guess I’ll be moving straight ahead, so don’t sit up for me to-night. See you later.”
They parted at the crossroads. Cervantes swung off to the left, plainly failing to comprehend this queer young man of strange impulses, and waved his hand in farewell. Jack Robinson jogged along reflectively, thinking of the man who had just left him.