"How? They's tracks, a few of 'em, leadin' from the pile of dirt straight to the hard ground in front of the stage corrals. Beyond there they ain't any tracks. Trail 'em! How you gonna trail 'em?"
"I dunno," replied Dolan, promptly passing the buck. "Yo're the sheriff. She's yore job. You gotta do something. C'mon out."
The five men, Dolan and the sheriff arguing steadily, went out into the street. Racey walked thoughtfully in the rear. He was revolving in his mind what the sheriff had said about an expert. Of course it had been an expert. And experts in lock-picking in the cattle country are few and far between.
Racey decided that it would be a good idea for him to have a little talk on lock-picking with Peaches Austin. Not that he suspected the excellent Peaches of having picked those locks. But Peaches knew who had. Oh, most certainly Peaches knew who had.
CHAPTER XXIII
TAKING FENCES
"'Lo, Peaches."
Peaches Austin, standing at the Starlight bar, was raising a glass to his lips. But at the greeting he set down the liquor untasted, turned his head, and looked into the face of Racey Dawson.
"Whatsa matter, Peaches?" inquired Racey. "You don't look glad to see me."
"I ain't," Peaches said, frankly. "I don't give a damn about seein' you."