His first suspicion was that one of his men had been using it.  But he knew that that was impossible.  He would have seen it, and moreover one man does not take another man’s saddle without saying by your leave.

“The thing is worth three hundred dollars, easy,” he muttered.  “It would be funny....”

He went to the loose hay heaped at the wall and began to kick it about, half expecting to have his boot strike against the silver tipped horn or the heavy tapaderos.  And then at last did the swift, certain suspicion of the truth flash upon him.  He came upon a small soap box hidden far under the loose hay.  He drew it out, whisking away the straw which half filled it.  After the first start of amazement and a swift examination of the contents, he understood.

“A plant!” he cried angrily.  “A damned cowardly plant!  Lord, Lordy, but they’re making a clean job of this!”

Upon the top of the pile, the first thing he took into his hands, was a heavy silver watch.  It bore a name, scratched within the case, and the name was that of Jed MacIntosh, the man who, Blackie had told him, had been “cleaned out” in Dry Town.  There were two bank notes, one for ten dollars, one for twenty, and both were soiled with dark smears that told of dry blood.  There was a little, much worn memorandum book, with many pencil-scribbled entries in it, and upon the fly leaf it bore the name of Seth Powers, the man who had been robbed in Gold Run and who had been found beaten into unconsciousness.  There was a small tin can; in the bottom of it some pine pitch, and adhering to the pitch a fine sifting of gold dust.  A can, he knew, Ben Broderick would identify as the one of which he had been robbed!  There were other articles, two more watches, a revolver, an empty purse, which he could not identify but which he realized keenly would be identified when the time came.

Suppose that the time came now!  Suppose that he should hear the sheriff’s voice calling upon him, that a posse should come upon him and find him with this box in his possession!  What chance would he have?

His face went white with the anger which surged up within him and the desire leaped up, strong and bitter, to get in his two hands the man who had framed him and to choke the treacherous life out of him.  Then, suddenly, he was cool again, seeing the present danger and the urgent need of prompt action.

First he made certain that there was no other damning bit of false evidence concealed in the hay or any where in the loft.  Then, taking the box under his arm, he went down into the stable.  Here again he made careful search, spending an hour in a stubborn search.  Then leaving the box in a manger, straw-covered, he went back to the cabin on the top of the knoll.  His eyes, running to the four points of the compass, told him that there was no other man within sight.

Taking off his boots and socks he waded out into the middle of Big Little River, carrying a shovel and the box.  In the soft, sandy soil he made a hole deep enough to hold the box which he put into it.  Swiftly he filled it with stones, placed a big, flat rock over it, saw that there was no sign of his work as the sand and mud drifted in to fill the little hollow, and then went back for his boots.  The shovel he put again against the bunk house wall.