“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  A gent, a lawyer anyway, keeps a lot of papers in his safe as a rule.  Sometimes them papers make a heap interesting readin’.”  The Judge paused and regarded Racey coolly.

“They might prove interesting reading, that’s a fact,” drawled Racey.

“Now I ain’t suggestin’ anything,” pursued Judge Dolan.  “I couldn’t on account of my oath.  But it ain’t so Gawd-awful far from Farewell to Marysville.”

“It ain’t too far.”

“I got a notion Luke Tweezy will find important business to keep him here in Farewell the next four or five days.”

“I wonder what kind of a safe Luke has got,” murmured Racey.

“Damfino,” said the Judge.  “You know anything about dynamite—­how it’s handled, huh?”

“Shore, handle it carefully.”

“I mean how to prepare a fuse and detonator and stick it in the cartridge.  You know how?”

“I helped a miner man once for a week.  Shore I know.  You cut the fuse square-ended.  Stick the square end into the cap until it touches the fulminate, and crimp down the copper shell all round with a dull knife to hold the fuse.  Then you make a hole in the end of the cartridge and—­”

“I guess you know yore business, Racey,” interrupted Judge Dolan.  “You’ll find a package on that shelf by the door.  Handle it carefully.  I’m glad you dropped in, Racey, Nice weather we’re having.”

“But there are some people about due for a cold wave,” capped Racey, stopping on his way out to take the package from the shelf and wink at Judge Dolan.

The wink was not returned.  But the Judge’s tongue may have been in his cheek.  He was a most human person, was Judge Dolan of Farewell.

Racey, handling the package with care, went back to the draw where he had left the two horses.  In the draw he opened the package.  It contained six sticks of dynamite and the necessary detonators and fuse.

“Good old Judge,” said Racey, admiringly, and rewrapped the dynamite, the detonators, and the fuse with even more care than he had employed in unwrapping them.

He rolled the package into his slicker and tied down the slicker behind the cantle of his saddle.  Untying the two horses he mounted his own and, leading the other, rode to the hotel corral.

Bill Lainey was only too glad to lend him a fresh horse and a bran sack.

It was dusk when he dismounted at the Dale corral.  There was a lamp in the kitchen.  Its rays shone out through the open door and made a rectangle of golden light on the dusty earth.  Molly was standing at the kitchen table.  She was stirring something in a bowl.  She did not turn her head when he came to the door.

“Evenin’, Molly,” said Racey.

“Good evening.”  Just that.

“Uh.  Yore ma around?”

“She’s gone to bed.”  Still the dark head was not raised.

He misunderstood both her brevity and the following silence.  He left his hat on the washbench outside the door and stepped into the kitchen.