“We have.”
“I saw the beginning of that. Where have you sent him?”
“That,” smiled the marshal, “is a job for your secret-service department!”
“And who else?”
“John Edstrom has gone down to bury his wife. It's not the first time that dough-faced old preacher has made trouble for us, but it'll be the last. You'll find him in Pedro—probably in the poor-house.”
“No,” responded Hal, quickly—and there came just a touch of elation in his voice—“he won't have to go to the poor-house at once. You see, I've just sent twenty-five dollars to him.”
The camp-marshal frowned. “Really!” Then, after a pause, “You did have that money on you! I thought that lousy Greek had got away with it!”
“No. Your knave was honest. But so was I. I knew Edstrom had been getting short weight for years, so he was the one person with any right to the money.”
This story was untrue, of course; the money was still buried in Edstrom's cabin. But Hal meant for the old miner to have it in the end, and meantime he wanted to throw Cotton off the track.
“A clever trick, young man!” said the marshal. “But you'll repent it before you're through. It only makes me more determined to put you where you can't do us any harm.”