"I had n’t ought to ’a’ done it when I knowed th’ second got him—but he kept a-comin’ an’ I was a-thinkin’ of Buck. Come on, let’s get goin’." He mounted and waited impatiently for Tex, who was still standing beside his horse as if unwilling to leave the scene. "His pot-shootin’ is over, so let’s start back." "Uh-huh," muttered Tex, still lost in thought. Hopalong waited, having acquired increased respect for his friend’s brain capacity in the last few days. "Hoppy, why did Dave ambush Buck an’ have to run, just when he was goin’ to skin Schatz for a pot of money?" "Give it up," answered Hopalong. "Well, why did n’t Schatz turn up when everything was set for the play?" "Got to pass again, Tex," was Hopalong’s indulgent reply. "Dave had plenty of chances to kill Buck—better chances than that one—an’ no need to run, if he was careful. Th’ Twin River trail is travelled some—it was shore risky—no time to waste in Wayback waitin’ for Schatz after that, huh?" "Mebby th’ kid did n’t get it right," suggested Hopalong. Tex nodded his head convincingly. "Yes, he did. Told a straight story. Hoppy, Dave knew Schatz was n’t comin’. Hoppy, I got—I got a feelin’—Hoppy, what ’ll you bet Dave ain’t got th’ money right now?" "By G—d!" exclaimed Hopalong, staring at his friend, his mind racing along the scent like a hound to the kill. "By G—d!" he repeated, softly, as he dropped from the saddle and became hidden in the crevice. "No money, Tex; only a few—" "Where’s his horse?" demanded Tex, eagerly. "_Yo ’re_ goin’ to run for sheriff," came the retort, and Hopalong followed the track of Dave’s horse and turned into the ravine, out of sight of Tex, who waited impatiently. Tex was surprised at the result of the quest when a crazy man came buck-jumping into sight, yelling like an Indian and frantically waving a tightly grasped saddle pad of sacking. He would have come out with more dignity if the money had been his, but belonging as it did to his old foreman, the big-hearted man who had been for so long a time on the verge of despair and defeat, allowed himself the luxury of free expression to the bubbling joy within him. "Come on, Tex!" he cried. "Th’ h—l with goin’ back—we ’ll take a chance of meetin’ th’ Dutchman as Dave Owens’ personal executors an’ ambassadors. If Schatz has got a wad like this, he ’s th’ man I want to see. Come on! We ’ll bust all Montana records for hold-ups—come on, you wise old devil!" "Now who ’s goin’ to be sheriff?" grinned Tex, and then allowed himself the relief of working off his joy in a short jig, which informed him that Dave had made a hit; not a bull’s eye, but a hit just the same. "Here, you drunk Apache," Hopalong cried, "let’s count up an’ see what we got."