The Search for the Missing Pocket-book.
“I declare, my luck has played me false for once in my life,” said Tom, seating himself on the bed and giving up with blank despair. “I was sure that pocket-book was hidden somewhere about his bed.”
“Well, then, I must take a hand,” said I, pulling over one of the other beds. “Here are plenty of others to be examined. Let’s pull them all to pieces.”
Tom went to work once more, but I knew we were on the wrong scent. We pulled all the beds to pieces, and then I got a chair and devoted myself to the rafters, especially all around the house where they came down to the wall, and Tom got a sharp stick somewhere and pried up the stones there were in the fireplace, but not a thing did we find. We spent at least an hour on the inside of the ranch, and then, utterly discouraged, we went out on the porch and I pulled out my pipe.
“My luck has gone back on me, too,” said I. “Where do you suppose Mr. Davenport hid that thing?”
“I don’t believe he could tell himself if he were alive,” answered Tom. “He must have felt very bad when he hid it, for he took the wrong pocket-book. Do you imagine he hid it under the house?”
“I don’t know. We might as well look everywhere, now that we are here. There is one thing about it,” I added, “he didn’t know but he had the right one at the time he fell from his horse. When he fell he put his hands on his pocket-book. Who are those coming there?”
I did not need to point out the direction of the three men who were approaching, because they were in plain sight, and Tom saw them readily enough. They were coming fast, too, as if they feared they might be too late. Tom never changed his position, nor did he make an effort to pick up his rifle.
“It is somebody coming to look for the pocket-book,” said he. “Let them go on and see what sort of luck they will have. It wouldn’t surprise me if they went straight to it.”