What more likely than that Hardman had been this accomplice? Hawkes said he was a big long-haired fellow. So was the man that had held up the engineer of the Limited. He was—“J. H. begins hear.” Like a flash the ill-written scrawl jumped to his sight. “J. H.” was Jay Hardman. What luck!
The doctor finished his work, and Collins tested his leg gingerly. “Del, I’m going over to have a little talk with the old man. Want to go along?”
“You bet I do, Val”—from Del Hawkes.
“You mustn’t walk on that leg for a week or two yet, Mr. Collins,” the doctor explained, shaking his head.
“That so, doctor? And it nothing but a nice clean flesh-wound! Sho! I’ve a deal more confidence in you than that. Ready, Del?”
“It’s at your risk then, Mr. Collins.”
“Sure.” The sheriff smiled. “I’m living at my own risk, doctor. But I’d a heap rather be alive than daid, and take all the risk that’s coming, too. But since you make a point of it, I’ll do most of my walking on a bronco’s back.”
They found Mr. Hardman just emerging from the stable with a saddle-pony when they rode into the corral. At a word from Collins, Hawkes took the precaution to close the corral gate.
The fellow held a wary position on the farther side of his horse, the while he ripped out a raucous string of invectives.
“Real fluent, ain’t he?” murmured Hawkes, as he began to circle round to flank the enemy.