“Rugs!” snorts Chuck. “Mighty is sort of a taxidermist, and he put them eyes in himself. They sure look natural.”
We found that box. Chuck makes a presentation speech to the minion of the law, who recites a few appropriate words in return. Bill takes the box on his saddle-horn, and we goes back to Paradise.
We gets McGuire and all the rest of Paradise’s population to see the grand opening. We assembles in Pelly’s saloon and Mike furnishes the hammer.
“Gents,” states Bill, “this ain’t a complete exoneration of Telescope and Ames, but I reckon it clears ’em a plenty. The law recovers said stolen property, but I’ll let Mister Warner and Mister Peck tell the story. I can hunt lost things but I can’t tell a interesting story like some folks.”
“You better superintend this, McGuire,” he continues. “It’s a lot of wealth to look upon.”
He tears the top boards off, and Paradise gazes a plenty.
Me and Chuck takes one gaze, and slips loose. We meets at the door, ambles around the corner and forks our broncs. I follers Chuck’s lead, and about a mile from town we stops and looks back.
“Henry,” says he, sad-like, “who do you suppose put them rocks in that box?”
“If I knew I’d be a murderer,” says I, and then it strikes me funny. “Box of scab-rock guarded by two mounted bobcats! Haw! Haw! Haw! Mister McFee, we hereby puts in your care and custody one box, the value of same being problematical. You being a duly elected officer of the law, and, we having faith in your integrity and sense of duty, turneth over said box to be dealt with as yuh see fit,” says I, quoting Chuck’s woodshed speech.
“Value being problematical takes the curse of anyway, Hen,” says he.