“It may have got shoved among some of my things by mistake,” replied Bob gravely.  “I haven’t had a chance of looking.  I’m just in from the Basin.”  At these last words he looked at Jack keenly, but that young man’s expression remained inscrutable.  “I’ll look when I get back,” he continued after a moment; “just now I’ve got to ride over to the mill to see Mr. Welton.”

Jack nodded gravely.

“If you find them, leave them by the chimbley,” said he.  “I’m going to headquarters.”

Bob rode to the mill.  By the exercise of some diplomacy he brought the conversation to good lawyers without arousing Welton’s suspicions that he could have any personal interest in the matter.

“Erbe’s head and shoulders above the rest,” said Welton.  “He has half the business.  He’s for Baker’s interests, and our own; and he’s shrewd.  Maybe you’ll get into trouble yourself some day, Bob.  Better send for him.  He’s the greatest criminal lawyer in the business.”

Bob laughed heartily with his old employer.  From Poole he easily obtained currency for his personal check of two hundred dollars.  This would do to go on with for the time being.  He wrote Erbe’s name and address—­in a disguised hand—­on a piece of rough brown paper.  This he wrapped around the money, and deposited by the alarm clock on the rough log mantelpiece of his cabin.  The place was empty.  When he had returned from his invited supper with the Thornes, the package had disappeared.  He did not again catch sight of Jack Pollock, for next morning he started out on his errand to the north end.

XIII

At noon of the second day of a journey that led him up the winding watered valleys of the lower ranges, Bob surmounted a ridge higher than the rest and rode down a long, wide slope.  Here the character of the country changed completely.  Scrub oaks, young pines and chaparral covered the ground.  Among this growth Bob made out the ancient stumps of great trees.  The ranch houses were built of sawn lumber, and possessed brick chimneys.  In appearance they seemed midway between the farm houses of the older settled plains and the rougher cabins of the mountaineers.

Bob continued on a dusty road until he rode into a little town which he knew must be Durham.  Its main street contained three stores, two saloons, a shady tree, a windmill and watering trough and a dozen chair-tilted loafers.  A wooden sidewalk shaded by a wooden awning ran the entire length of this collection of commercial enterprises.  A redwood hitching rail, much chewed, flanked it.  Three saddle horses, and as many rigs, dozed in the sun.

Bob tied his saddle horse to the rail, leaving the pack animal to its own devices.  Without attention to the curious stares of the loafers, he pushed into the first store, and asked directions of the proprietor.  The man, a type of the transplanted Yankee, pushed the spectacles up over his forehead, and coolly surveyed his questioner from head to foot before answering.