Meanwhile the boy who had caught Marshall’s horse had disencumbered it of saddle and bridle, and turned it into the corral with a kindly pat on its heaving flank.
“Guess I’ll report to the boss,” he called out, as he picked up the saddle and moved away toward the ranch home.
“Look out for yourself,” shouted one of the group. “Old Thurston will be madder than hell.”
But it was terror, selfish terror, not anger nor grief, that came into Ben Thurston’s eyes when he saw the saddle horn smeared with fresh blood and scarred by a bullet.
“My God, and I believed Don Manuel was dead,” he whispered in a hoarse voice to Leach Sharkey.
The two had been, as usual, in close companionship; Sharkey reading a weekly newspaper, while the employer he was paid to protect, restlessly, as was his wont, paced the room.
“Disappeared and dead ain’t exactly the same thing,” replied the sleuth as he critically examined the saddle. “And there may be another explanation to this. What about Dick Willoughby?”
“Yes, yes, Dick Willoughby,” eagerly assented the trembling man.
“You saw them quarreling the other day—they hate each other like poison,” continued Sharkey. “Where’s Dick Willoughby now?” he enquired, with a swift glance at the cowboy.
“Good Lord, that’s just where he is—searching the canyons below the forest for mavericks,” was the reply.