“Aye, aye!” said Witmar.
“I will finish the story,” broke in Erskine, in his blunt, authoritative tone. “Private Ashe, armed with an excellent description of Clifton’s assailant, immediately reported to the superintendent of police at a post in the settlement. He conferred with him regarding his suspicions. What followed would make quite a story, boys, but the upshot of it was that they decided to make an early morning descent upon Hank Styles’ ranch-house and capture the entire band.”
“And the joke was on us,” murmured Witmar.
“One thing I don’t quite understand,” said Dave, “is this: if the wagon belonged to Hank Styles, why were the men so foolish as to return to headquarters, knowing that the finding of the vehicle must throw suspicion upon them?”
“There was nothing to identify it as belonging to the ranch. They were too sly to be caught so easily.”
“Oh, now it is all clear to me,” declared the “historian.”
“There is nothing else to say,” remarked Teddy Banes. “Everybody know everything.”
“On the contrary, Banes, I have a few remarks to add,” said the grizzled sergeant.
“We shall be very glad to hear them,” exclaimed Bob.
“In a way, you have proved good friends to the smugglers, who were cowboys and cattle rustlers between times. By a peculiar combination of circumstances you appeared at exactly the right time to enable them to escape the clutches of the law.”