Tired but happy, the little party got back to camp just after sundown. Here a surprise greeted them, for they found the sheriff, and half a dozen of his aids, awaiting their arrival. The sheriff's face was very grave and he answered their cordial greetings crisply.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I have a warrant for the arrest of Charley West, Walter Hazard, Capt. Benjamin Westfield, Bob Bratton, Will Kitchner and C. P. McCarty (white), and Christopher Columbus (negro)."
The little party stared at each other in stupefied amazement.
"On what charge?" demanded Charley, recovering his breath.
"On the charge of being the principals and accessories before and after the fact in the murder of one Levi P. Morton, late of New York City, on the night of November 23d, 1913," read the sheriff droningly.
"That gunman!" gasped Walter. "Why no one murdered him, Mr. Sheriff. He was kicked to death by mules he attempted to poison."
"I shall have to warn you that anything you say can be used against you at your trial," said the sheriff sternly. "I have found the grave of the dead man near this camp."
"Rats!" sneered McCarty angrily. "No sane judge would hold us ten minutes on such a charge."
"Well," observed the sheriff coolly, "you will have a chance to test that. Even if I were convinced of your innocence, I would have to arrest you just the same. When a warrant is given me it is my sworn duty to serve it."
"The sheriff is right," Charley said hopelessly. "We will have to go with him, and we might as well do it without argument. The judge will turn us loose as soon as he hears our story, but it will be too late then."