ffered at the tomb, so to
speak, of Old Man Hooper; and the copy of the agreement between Emory
and Hooper. The latter, as I had surmised, stated in so many words that
it superceded and nullified an old partnership agreement. This started
us on a further search which was at last rewarded by the discovery of
that original partnership. It contained, again as I had surmised, the
not-uncommon clause that in case of the death of one or the other of the
partners without direct heirs the common property should revert to the
other. I felt very stuck on myself for a good guesser. The only trouble
was that the original of the second agreement was lacking: we had only a
copy, and of course without signatures. It will be remembered that
Brower said he had deposited it with a third party, and that third party
was to us unknown. We could not even guess in what city he lived. Of
course we could advertise. But Windy Bill who--leaning his long figure
against the wall--had been listening in silence--a pretty fair young
miracle in itself--had a good idea, which was the real miracle, in my
estimation.

"Look here," he broke in, "if I've been following the plot of this yere
dime novel correctly, it's plumb easy. Just catch Jud--Jud--you know,
the editor of the _Cochise Branding Iron_, and get him to telegraph a
piece to the other papers that Artie Brower, celebrated jockey et
ceterer, has met a violent death at Hooper's ranch, details as yet
unknown. That's the catch-word, as I _savey_ it. When this yere third
party sees that, he goes and records the paper, and there you are!"

Windy leaned back dramatically and looked exceedingly pleased with
himself.

"Yes, that's it," approved Buck, briefly, which disappointed Windy, who
was looking for high encomium.

At this moment a messenger came in from the firing party to report that
apparently all opposition had ceased. At least there had been for some
time no shooting from the direction of the water troughs; a fact
concealed from us by the thickness of the ranch walls. Buck Johnson
immediately went out to confer with Watkins.

"I kind of think we've got 'em all," was the latter's opinion. "We
haven't had a sound out of 'em for a half hour. It may be a trick, of
course."

"Sure they haven't slipped by you?" suggested the senor.

"Pretty certain. We've got a close circle."

"Well, I wouldn't take chances in the dark. Just lay low 'till morning."

We returned to the ranch house where, aft