This was unanswerable, for Conan guarded our safe whenever there was anything in it worth guarding.  Ajax never is so happy as when he can prove himself a prophet.

“I said he was an artist,” he remarked.  “The truth is, we tried an experiment upon the wrong man.”

A few minutes later we took the road.  We had not gone very far, however, before we met the neighbour who had driven Johnson to town.  He pulled up and greeted us.

“Boys,” said he.  “I’ve a note for ye from that Britisher.”

We took the note, but we did not open it till our Californian friend had disappeared.  We had been butchered, but as yet the abominable fact that a compatriot had skinned us was something we wished to keep to ourselves.

“Great Minneapolis!” said Ajax.  “Look at this!”

I saw a bank receipt for the exact sum which represented our bunch of steers.

“Is that all?” I asked.

Ajax ought to have shouted for joy, but he answered with a groan.

“Yes; there isn’t a line of explanation.  He said we should hear from him.”

“And we have,” I replied.

We returned to the ranch very soberly.  When Ajax placed the bank receipt in the safe, he kicked that solid piece of furniture.

“We’ll drive in comfortably to-morrow, and find out what we can,” he observed.

“I don’t think we shall find Johnson,” I murmured.

Nor did we.  The cashier testified to receiving the roll of notes, but not the letter of introduction.  We hunted high and low for Johnson; but he was not.

“How did he get away without money?” he asked.

“He had money.  I stuck a twenty-dollar bill into his coat pocket.”

Before leaving town, we visited our gunmaker, with the intention of ordering some cartridges.  By the merest chance, he spoke of Johnson.

“A Britisher was in here yesterday:  somethin’ o’ the cut o’ you boys.”

“In a grey suit with a brown sombrero?”

“Sure enough.”

“Did he buy cartridges?”

“He bought a six-shooter and a few cartridges.”

“Oh!” said Ajax.

We found ourselves walking towards a secluded lot at the back of the Old Mission Church.  Ajax asked me for an opinion which I was too dazed to express.

“We’ve done a silly thing, and perhaps a wicked thing,” said my brother.  “If that poor devil is lying dead in the brush-hills, I shall never forgive myself.  We’ve given a starving man too heavy a meal.”

“Bosh!” said I, believing every word he uttered—­the echo, indeed, of my own thoughts.  “I feel in my bones we are going to see Johnson again.”