“Search him, Jack,” the sheriff ordered.
The young man gave an exclamation of surprise. He was standing with a cigarcase in one hand and a billbook in the other. “It’s the man we’re after—it’s Bellamy.”
Burke left his horse and came forward. “How do you know?”
“Initials on the cigarcase, R. B. Same monogram on the billbook.”
The sheriff had stooped to pick up a battered hat as he moved toward the deputy. Now he showed the initials stamped on the sweat band. “R. B. here, too.”
“Suit of gray clothes, derby hat, size and weight 17 about medium. We’ll never know about the scar on the eyebrow, but I guess Mr. Bellamy is identified without that.”
“Must have camped here last night and while he was asleep the cattle stampeded down the cañon,” Tim hazarded.
“That guess is as good as any. They ce’tainly stomped the life out of him thorough. Anyhow, Bellamy has met up with his punishment. We’ll have to pack the body back to town, boys,” the sheriff told them.
Half an hour later the party filed out to the creosote flats and struck across country toward Mesa. Flatray was riding pillion behind Tim. His own horse was being used as a pack saddle.