“Barney Wythe, game warden in that section, lived in old Tappan and died there in 1916. I wrote to the Fish and Game Commission and learned that much. He had been head game warden for thirty-nine years—he was a character. He was a respected citizen, a church member, and as square and honest and clean an old codger as ever lived; one of those blunt, old-fashioned, honest, adventurous countrymen that it’s refreshing to hear about. Old Squire Wythe—that’s what they called him—wasn’t any grafter like you think. I talked to his grandson. Old Buck was wrong there, you can bet on that!”
I confess this somewhat took the wind out of my sail. “Well,” I said, “I’m glad to hear that; poor old Buck did him an injustice. And I’m sorry that I dishonored his memory. You’re quite a Sherlock Holmes, Tom.”
“That isn’t the point,” said Tom vehemently. “The point is that if the law’s men didn’t get the money, it’s up there yet.”
“So you said a month ago.”
“And Brent and I are going to find it.”
“Well, I can’t stop you,” I laughed. “What does Brent think?”
“Oh, he says he rather likes the idea, he likes the western element in it,” Tom said. “He says that with the anchor tattooed on his arm, Mink may turn out to be a nephew of Captain Kidd himself—you know how he talks.”
“Well, it would be fun with him along,” I confessed.
“And you won’t go?”
“To live in Rattlesnake Gulch? Not so you’d notice it,” I said.