“It hit me right where I lived. Something bad had happened. It hadn’t happened to the gal. So I figgered it must be Dick.
“And I wasn’t mistook,” continued Tolley with a certain satisfaction in his tone. “I’d been right when I thought there was a hoss in that pile of gravel. There was—but not much of it stickin’ out. However, I clawed down to the saddle, undid it, and hauled it out. It was Dick’s all right. I got it now stuck into the bottom of my big safe.”
“But where was Dick?” demanded Hurley.
“How should I know?” retorted the other. “Maybe under the heap—but I didn’t think so. I reckon he was throwed clean into the river. And you know what the current of Runaway River is!”
Hurley groaned.
“Wait!” said Hunt suddenly. “The man you call Dick might not have gone over the cliff with the horse. You did not see the accident.”
“He didn’t come back to town. And he wouldn’t have gone on afoot to Hoskins or any place else,” Tolley said surlily. “Nobody ain’t seen him around yere from that day to this.”
“And you lied about Dick and kept it under your hat all this time?” was Hurley’s comment.
“Well, I had a right, didn’t I?” blustered Tolley.
“Every right in the world.” The mining man spoke evenly now, coldly. “And you’ve got a better right to keep the story to yourself right along.”