"Oh, shut up!" ordered Racey, jerking the prisoner to his feet. "You talk too much."
"Where's yore Wells Fargo and Pinkerton detectives?" demanded Mr.
Pooley.
"This gent is the Wells Fargo detective," replied Racey, indicating the man who had helped him handcuff McFluke. "There ain't any Pinkerton within five hundred miles so far as I know…. Huh? Them? Oh, they were just drummers from Chicago I happened to speak to because I figured you'd be expectin' me to after I'd told you who they were. The real Wells Fargo, Mr. Johnson here, was a-watchin' yore corral alla time, so when you got a friend of yores to pull them two drummers into a poker game and then saddled yore hoss and went bustin' off in the direction of yore claim we got the marshal and trailed you."
"You can't prove anything!" bluffed Mr. Pooley.
"We were here beside the door listenin' from the time McFluke said he was too comfortable to move out of here." Thus the marshal wearily.
Mr. Pooley considered a moment. "Who snitched where Mac was?" he asked, finally.
"Nobody," replied Racey, promptly.
"Somebody must have. Who was it?"
"Nobody, I tell you. McFluke had to go somewhere, didn't he? He couldn't hang around Farewell. Too dangerous. But the chances were he wouldn't leave the country complete till he got his share. And as nothing had come off it wasn't any likely he'd got his share. So he'd want to keep in touch with his friends till the deal was put through. It was only natural he'd drift to you. And when I come here to Piegan City and heard you had hired a man to live on yore claim and then got a look at him without him knowing it the rest was easy."
"But what," inquired Mr. Pooley, perplexedly, "has Wells Fargo to do with this business?"