“No,––where was it?”
“A gang must have been working on the O.K. Supply Company’s premises last night. Three days ago, Morrison unloaded two carloads of feed and flour in his No. 1 Warehouse. They haven’t sold a nickel’s worth, and this morning there aren’t fifty sacks left.”
“Was the place broken into?” asked Phil.
“Must have been, but every bolt and bar is secure, so are all the padlocks. It’s a mighty queer thing.
“I had it on the inside that the Pioneer Traders were shy last week, but they gave out no report; and Mayor Brenchfield, whose Warehouse and stables lie between the Pioneer Traders and the O.K. Supply Co. lodged a complaint with Chief Palmer this morning that he had lost forty bags of bran and oats from his place. Of course, his loss isn’t a patch on the loss of the other two.
“You know, this darned thing has been going on for several years. Somebody is getting fat on it. The O.K. Supply Company have lost sixty thousand dollars’ worth in four or five years. They have put new locks and bolts on, but all to no purpose. The Pioneer Traders must be considerably shy, too.
“The Police don’t do a thing, and everybody seems scared to act for fear of being got back at in some way.
“The Indians are being blamed for it; so are some of the wilder element who have cattle ranches and lots of live stock to feed. Easy way to fatten your animals, eh, Phil!
“If we could lay the man by the heels who ransacked your place, we might be able to get a clue to the others.”