“I guess he tried to, but Cochise got scared and wouldn’t go. What do you suppose it is ?”
“Gosh, I dunno! Don’t sound like Pachuca; he wouldn’t come back a second time. Sure looks bad.”
“And the feller says Mrs. Conrad’s there. What’s he mean by that, do you think?”
“Who’s she?”
“Mr. Hard’s friend; the widow woman that lives down South. Upon my word, Tom Johnson, I do believe that’s the woman and the trouble that the ouija meant and I thought all the time it was talking about Polly Street!”
“Dunno, I’m sure. Where’s Cochise?”
“Gone down to the corral.”
“Guess I’d better go down and give him the once over. They’ve probably rode him to death between ’em. Gosh, I’m sorry to hear that news!” and Tom strode off, sadly, followed by the others. “Poor old chap,” he murmured, a few minutes later, as he took the saddle off Cochise. “Can’t do nothin’ for your boss, so I’ll do what I can for you. Pretty well petered out, ain’t you?”
“Say, Tom, what are we going to do about this Casa Grande business, anyhow?” demanded O’Grady.
“Well, with a dynamited track, a busted auto, a smashed ’phone connection and a foundered horse, what would you suggest doing?” demanded Johnson, pessimistically. “Walkin’ ain’t so durned good in this country.”