“Got ary idee who might ’a’ done it?” asked Horace.
“If I have, I’ll keep it to myself,” came the tart reply. “I look to you boys to lend me a hand and all I git is some horrawin’.”
“No need to git hot about it,” grinned the wagon boss, toying with his drink.
The sheriff ignored that remark and turned to his bartender.
“Was all of these men in the place at midnight when No. 3 come in?”
The bartender smoothed his bald head in grave thought. He had taken a goodly amount of drinks since the boys got in. Owl eyed, he tallied the crowd.
“Near as I kin recollect, Dick, not a man o’ them has left since I come back from supper at eleven.”
“Then that alibis this bunch of cow dodgers,” and the sheriff moved on out and down the street.
The robbery gave the cowpunchers a meaty topic for talk—talk and more drinks. They hit upon the idea of following Dick Powell in his sleuthing.