“What the hell you drivin’ at, Dick?” asked Horace, his mild eyes glinting a little.
“Some polecat knocked the depot man on the head and got off with five thousand dollars, that’s all.”
“Where did that key pounder ever git five thousand bucks?” asked some one.
“Payroll fer the Landusky mine. Five thousand in cash.”
“Well,” drawled Cotton Eye, the nighthawk, “I reckon them mine folks will keep on runnin’ things just the same. Have a drink and fergit it.”
“Whoever lifted that roll won’t have to worry none about forkin’ hay and openin’ water holes this winter,” chuckled another cowboy.
“Dad burn the luck,” complained a third, “why didn’t I think about glaumin’ that payroll? Now I gotta break out of a early mornin’ from now till spring, shovelin’ hay into a lot o’ bawlin’ dogies. Some gents gits all the luck.”
But for all their banter, they felt uneasy. Who among them had stolen that five thousand dollars? Oddly enough, no man blamed the thief. They rather admired his ingenuity. He had made a lucky haul.
“Well, Dick,” said Horace slowly, “whoever done it, must ’a’ been blind drunk. You know every man in the outfit. There ain’t one rotten egg in the bunch. Say, how do you know it wa’n’t some tramp er some stray miner that done it?”
“The depot man heard his spurs jingle, so he says,” growled the sheriff, “just before he got beefed. It was some cow hand. And outside of you boys there ain’t a cowboy in town. He heard them spurs.”