“Yes, I forgot,” admitted Judge. “At least he had enough to get himself blasted off this mortal coil—or presumed to have.”
There was no use going back to the ranch, so they went up to their room at the Tonto Hotel. It was miserably hot up there. Judge kicked off his gaiters, flung his hat in a corner and sat down, a miserable specimen of the genus homo.
Henry said nothing, sitting there on the edge of the bed, deep in thought. Judge got up slowly and went over to a small closet, where he picked up a jug and shook it carefully. Henry said slowly:
“‘And lately, by the tavern door agape,
Came shining through the dusk an Angel
Shape bearing a vessel on his shoulder;
And he bid me taste of it; and ’twas the Grape.’”
“Omar,” said Judge, “had the right idea, but in our case it was prune-juice and horse liniment. Have a small portion, sir.”
“About three inches in a bath-tub,” nodded Henry soberly.
Tonto City was not greatly perturbed over the murder of Old Ben Todd. Henry gave the will to John Campbell, the prosecutor, who said that if Ben left anything of value it must be given to Violet La Verne. Henry went to the county recorder’s office and looked over the records, but Ben Todd had not recorded a mining claim for over a year.
Later in the day he found the girl in the honkatonk at the King’s Castle, and sat down with her. Violet had little resemblance to her namesake. She was of undeterminate age, blonde, by choice, with dark roots showing.