“But—but why were they taken?” faltered Musical.
“Who would take them away, Big Medicine?”
The big man shook his head and went from room to room, with the five cowboys following him. Everything indicated that the searchers had left nothing untouched. The drawers of an old dresser in Big Medicine’s room had been emptied in a pile and the drawers thrown aside. The bedding was strewn widely, and even the pictures were torn down and kicked aside.
They came back to the living-room and sat down, silently wondering who had done this thing. Big Medicine did not rave nor curse. He only wondered in a painful way. Hashknife alone knew that the work had been done by the men who had lost that valuable cargo of drugs, and he felt responsible for Big Medicine’s loss.
“What can we do?” wondered Cleve aloud. “There’s no use in runnin’ around.”
“No use.” Big Medicine shook his head. “They probably saw us ride away, and it gave them plenty of time.”
His big hands clenched convulsively, and Hashknife wondered how long the ordinary man would live in the clutches of Big Medicine in his present frame of mind.
“No use,” echoed Musical.
He got to his feet and crossed to the phonograph. The record case had been emptied, the records smashed. He picked up two pieces, which fitted together, and looked them over before holding them out for inspection.
“They sure knocked hell out of ‘The Holy City,’” he said.