“I dunno where that ed saddle is,” declared the boy. “I know it. McKeever bought it from a mail-order catalog. One of the worst forks I ever set into. Cost about fifteen dollars, I reckon. Are you sure that’s the horse he was ridin’?”
“That’s the horse.” Brick was positive.
“What about the bullet-hole? Been some shootin’ goin’ on?”
“Bullet-holes don’t occur by themselves,” grinned Brick. “We’ll see if we can find Jimmy.”
They left the stable and crossed the street, going past McGill’s saloon, but there was no sign of McKeever. McGill was behind the bar, reading a newspaper, alone in the place. They went on up to the Short Horn, but found no trace of McKeever.
They asked the bartender, who said that he had not seen McKeever since about noon. At the Boston hotel, where McKeever lived, they were informed that he had not been around there since morning.
They went back to the Short Horn and had barely entered the place when the youth from the livery-stable followed them in. He was hatless, pasty-faced, and in one hand he carried an old tin bucket.
“For ’s sake, come on!” he panted to Brick. “Come on with me! My !”
He turned and ran out, with Brick and Silent close behind him. Several of those in the saloon, who had heard, followed them down the street.
Straight to the stable they went, and the boy stopped in the middle of the floor, under the light of a lantern.