“Mighty spoke of some folks being accessory to the fact, too,” states Doughgod, offhand-like.
“Stealing dynamite!” yelps the old man. “Where, when and what for?”
“I don’t know. Mighty comes to town and acts like a man what has had delirious delight scared out of him. He anchors to Pelly’s bar until he’s gained normal again, and then he speaks knowingly of powder-thieves. Mighty’s half-loco, and what ain’t loco is absent-mindness, but just the same he has Muley arrested, and he hints of more arrests as soon as certain persons hit town. I seen Muley, and he said if I came this way to have Chuck and Hen come to see him.”
“That’s right,” agrees the old man. “We’ll all go down.”
“Not me,” says I. “I got rheumatic pains in my knees. Notice how I fell over that buckboard handle? I ain’t myself today, and I simply couldn’t stand it to ride.”
“Neither could I,” says Chuck. “I’m sore all over. Let’s wait until tomorrow. Muley will be there just the same.”
“We’ll go in the buckboard,” says the old man. “In a case like this I’d go if I had to walk.”
“I’d admire to walk,” says Chuck, but the old man goes after the team, and me and Chuck helps each other limp to the bunk-house.
“Shake hands with a murderer, Henry,” says Chuck, offering his hand. “I’ve killed the old man and crippled Doughgod for life—in my mind. You and me will spend the evening and night in the Paradise jail, Henry Clay Peck.”
“Can’t yuh think of nothing cheerful to sing?” I asks. “If we’re in jail we never will find that box. Think!”