“U. S. marshal?” blurted the sheriff.
“Yeah. I be been looking for Cloudy McGee, bud I didn’t hab much of a describtion, excebt that he gambles quite a lot and is about my size. I heard he was in Salt Wells, or aroud that part of the country.
“I med this sud-of-a-gud and he wod my horse, saddle, hat and my gud. I thought he’d stay there bud he left; so I stole a horse and followed him. I heard hib frame up to rob this bank. They called hib McGee. That feller over there,” pointing at Amos, who was almost in a state of collapse, “took ted thousad from the bank last night; so I toog it away frob him. It’s ub in by roob.”
“Well, for the land’s sake!” blurted the man upon whom the deputy marshal sat. “They mistook me for Cloudy McGee, and I let the sheriff in on the deal. I thought you was McGee, because they recognized me by that big hat which I won away from you at Salt Wells, and we framed it to get Putney, Weed and you this morning.”
“Is thad so?” The marshal wiped his nose and stared down at the man under him. “Who in hell are you?”
“Me? I’m the bank examiner.”
“Huh! Loogs like a mistage—dab id.”
The officer got to his feet, grinning widely.
Amos was coming toward them, holding out the telegram.
“I’ll deed it to the bank,” he quavered. “It’s a gusher, and they’re worth more than fifty thousand dollars. Just so they don’t hang me, I’ll agree to anything.”