Barnhardt mounted his sway-backed horse and rode away, his elbows flapping, his trouser-legs crawling up. About a mile from the Double Bar 8 he drew rein and let his horse walk slowly along the dusty road, while he took an envelope from his pocket.
The flap had already been torn loose. He drew out the letter and perused it closely. The envelope, postmarked Chicago, was addressed to H. Hartley, Blue Wells, Arizona, and the letter read:
Dear Sir: A wire from us to James Eaton Legg, San Francisco, California, brought a reply from his former place of residence to the effect that Mr. Legg had left there and had left his forwarding address as Blue Wells, Arizona. This may be a coincidence, or it may be because of some former information. Trusting that you will be able to furnish us with valuable information soon, we beg to remain,
Sincerely yours,
Leesom & Brand.
Barnhardt’s lips were shut tightly and the muscles of his jaw bulged as he tore the letter into tiny fragments, swung his horse off the road and scattered the bits of paper into a mesquite tangle. He turned in his saddle and looked back toward the Double Bar 8, as he reined his horse back to the road.
“Hashknife Hartley,” he said earnestly, “do you think I’m a —— fool?”
But whether Hashknife did, or didn’t—Barnhardt had no way of knowing. He could only guess, and possibly he guessed wrong. At any rate he rode back to Blue Wells in a black frame of mind, and the first man he met was Chet Le Moyne.
“I’ve just been out to the Double Bar 8,” he told Le Moyne. “And I had a talk with your detectives.”
“You did, eh. What did they tell you?”
“That would be telling, Chet. I told them I knew they were working for the Santa Rita.”
“Yeah?” coldly. “And then?”