They went back to their horses and rode to town. Scotty was in bed at the office, suffering quite a lot with his injured head, in which the doctor had taken three stitches. It meant that several days would elapse before Scotty would be wearing a hat again.
A search of the office showed that the keys to the main door of the jail and to the cell were missing. Slim had kept them in a drawer in his desk. Luckily Slim had one set of duplicates.
“It wasn’t done by a stranger,” smiled Hashknife. “The man who pulled that job knew where to find the keys.”
“No; it was done by a friend, Hashknife,” laughed Chuck. “A friend with a lot of cold nerve.”
“And honest too,” laughed Slim. “He kept his word.”
They were out again at daylight. Slim’s idea was to keep a sharp watch on Chuckwalla. He believed that sooner or later Chuckwalla would go to old Rance. But Slim knew old Chuckwalla would be very careful, especially if he had any idea that the officers suspected him.
In order to look over considerable territory, in case old Rance should be hiding out in the country between the Circle Spade and the Half-Box R, Hashknife and Chuck headed straight for the Half-Box R, while Slim and Sleepy took the road to the Circle Spade.
Chuck knew of an old place, half shack, half dugout, hidden away in the hills between the two ranches. It had at one time been the winter home of a wolfer.
“Just stumbled onto it one day,” explained Chuck. “Yuh never could find it, unless yuh knowed just where to look. Old Rance might know where it is, and it would shore make a dinger of a hide-out.”
They came to the rickety old bridge across the river, which was barely wide enough for two riders abreast. On the left-hand side of the bridge, about a quarter of the way across, lay a battered sombrero. Hashknife swung down and picked it up.