“You know,” he said, “I sort of like that Pearl Brown. Reminds me a lot of a man I used to know down in Tucson named Cathcart, a blacksmith. Dead image of him. And they do say she comes from down in that neck of the woods. Yes, sir, she certainly looks exactly like him, and talks like he used to!” “Ever ask her if she was any kin?” the old saddler inquired, anything serving to rouse his bump of curiosity. “No. I’d sort of like it, but you see me and her ain’t very good friends. Just the same, I’d certainly like to know if she wasn’t a Cathcart. Of course without her knowing that I sort of wanted to know.” And thus having planted a seed that he was confident would bear fruit, Smith diplomatically changed the subject. On the following day, he entered the saddlery and was greeted with a scowl. “You got me inter a hell of a mess,” the saddler said, “askin’ me to go and ask that Pearl Brown if her dad’s name wa’n’t Cathcart!” “I didn’t ask you to ask her. I just said----” “Yes, I know; but you oughter heard what she said to me! She said that if people who stuck their bills inter other folks’ business had long noses, I’d have a nose like a pelican. An’ then all the fellers that heard her laughed their fool heads off, when the Lord knows there ain’t anybody that minds his own affairs more’n I do.” The miner soothed the saddler and left with a sense of bafflement. Smith was still endeavoring to think of other sources of information when he went to the Miners’ Emporium and was hailed by its proprietor. “I’ve thought of a way to settle that bet,” said Fosdike. “My kid brother is a lawyer down in Phoenix, and she let out one day that she knew him. So I wrote him a description. You’ll see. She’s no Cathcart.” “We’ll see!” The miner grinned, and made a jest of it when he departed for a two-week stay in the hills. The next time he appeared in the Emporium, Fosdike met him with a grunt and tossed him a letter. The miner read: If this woman is about thirty years old or younger, as you say, I’m afraid I can’t help to identify her, although she would be near my own age. Cathcart and Riggs each had two daughters, all good looking, and all with what you call “snappy black eyes.” Also, all were self-reliant. But none of them was named “Pearl,” and I never knew a girl named “Pearl.” “Humph!” said Smith. “Only way I can think of to find out who she was is to get Ring after her. They’re such good friends!” Both laughed at this ironic jest, for the feud between The Reformer and the owner of the Alamo had become a classic throughout the entire district; and yet, in the end, it was the editor who first got the information.