“Fred ain’t lonesome, much,” he said, wheezily. “Got a girl here. Fred reckons that the more he talks about stayin’, the more I’ll be set on goin’—which is the same true. Human nature is ornery as the devil, ain’t it now? Well, I s’pose you ain’t picked up any news to-day, Shea?”
“I have, sir,” intoned Thady, “an item of importance. A striped Indian, of name unknown, was overcome by dire fatality this morn. Upon the road Death ambushed him, and maimed his faithful steed, and laid him low. An automobile—mark the irony!—became the instrument of darkling fate, and brought to this poor aborigine the end of all things, and the close of life.”
Bill Murray stared open-mouthed, as did most people who heard Thady’s sonorously rolling accents for the first time. Then he emitted a wheezy chuckle.
“Oh! You mean the Injun buck that got straddled by Doniphan’s flivver! Heard all about him to-day. He’s layin’ over to the funeral parlours now. Some of his tribe’s in town, and they made Doniphan give him a real burial. Joke on Doniphan, ain’t it?”
“And,” pursued Thady, “at Mackintavers’ ranch this afternoon I gathered there had been a robbery. What worldly pelf was taken, I know not, but dread confusion reigned upon the place.”
“Gosh!” Bill Murray started up from his chair. “Say—that’s red-hot news, Shea! Don’t tell any one else around here. I’ll run out and phone the ranch. Got to run off my paper to-morrow night; I’ll pull some o’ that plate off the front page and run this in a box. Whee! Back in a minute!”
Bill Murray departed like a genial cyclone.
Now Thady Shea told about that battered little suitcase. He was not sure what should be done with the thing, and asked the advice of Fred Ross. He had not opened the suitcase; ever since finding it, he had been on the go. Besides, the suitcase was locked, and Thady hesitated to smash it open.
“Likely it was bounced off some ranch car or buckboard,” deduced Ross. “Belong to that dead Injun? No chance. None whatever! You never seen an Injun with one o’ them things, and anyhow, no Injun riding hossback would tote a suitcase along. No, none whatever! And that grip wasn’t made to tie on a saddle, neither. Reckon you’d better look inside, and if there ain’t any indication of the owner, then read the papers for an ad. Well, what ye going to do? Will ye come back to the ranch with me?”
