Joe Hurley stood erect again. He laughed.
“Great saltpeter!” he exclaimed, “you certainly are a friend in need, old-timer.”
“Come on,” rejoined Steve. “Let’s have the pertic’lars.”
It was the Reverend Willett Ford Hunt who took upon himself the explanation.
“Nell Blossom!” cried Steve. “That leetle songbird? You mean to say all this row is over her?”
“Mr. Tolley has made the statement that Miss Blossom was the cause of this Beckworth’s death. His horse went over the cliff into the canyon. Whether or not the man went with it——”
“He did!” cried Andy McCann, smiting his thigh resoundingly with his palm. “By gravy! Is that what’s eatin’ all you fellers?”
“Say! Who’s runnin’ this court, I’d like to know?” demanded Steve Siebert angrily.
“Aw, shut up—you old lizard,” said McCann, flaming at him. “’Tain’t no court. It ain’t nothin’ like it. Put up your gun. It’s all off. Dick the Devil ain’t dead at all. At least he wasn’t killed that time he went over the cliff. He’s Dick the Devil sure ’nough, and he’s got more luck than a hanged man.”
“Just what do you mean?” Hunt asked.