"Say, Chalkeye," he yelled, "I want you to saddle my mare, and get mounted yourself! Pronto!"
When I came out with the horses I found him fondling his shot-gun, so I buckled on my guns, and inquired for the name of my enemy.
"You know Cocky Brown?" he asked, as we rode down street.
"I know he makes a first-rate stranger," says I.
"His dog-gone son is here in Bisley drunk, and lets out that old Cocky is getting rent for La Soledad."
"Who is the locoed tenant—some poor tourist?"
"It's that dog-gone McCalmont and his robbers!"
"And yet, Mr. Hawkins, you laid the blame on me for raiding La Morita! It makes me sick!"
"For raiding La Morita? Why, of course—McCalmont's robbers—the same gang which shot up the 'Sepulchre' crowd at Grave City. That explains everything! Wall, I'm sure sorry, old friend, that I laid the blame on you."
"Mr. Hawkins," says I, "hadn't you better tell the pony-soldiers that they're barking up the wrong tree?"