“Get me a horse, Del, and round up two or three of the boys. I’ve got to get after those fellows. They are the ones that held up the Limited last week. Find out for me what hotel they put up at here. I want their rooms searched. Send somebody round to the corrals, and let me know where they stabled their horses. If they left any papers or saddle-bags, get them for me.” Fifteen minutes later Collins was in the saddle ready for the chase, and only waiting for his volunteer posse to join him. They were just starting when a frightened Chinaman ran into the plaza with the news that there had been shooting just back of his laundry on the edge of town and that a man had been killed. When the sheriff reached the spot, he lowered himself from the saddle and limped over to the black mass huddled against the wall in the bright moonlight. He turned the riddled body over and looked down into the face of the dead man. I was that of the outlaw, Scotty Dailey. That the body had been thoroughly searched was evident, for all around him were scattered his belongings. Here an old letter and a sack of tobacco, its contents emptied on the ground; there his coat and vest, the linings of each of them ripped out and the pockets emptied. Even the boots and socks of the man had been removed, so thorough had been the search. Whatever the murderers had been looking for it was not money, since his purse, still fairly well lined with greenbacks, was found behind a cactus bush a few yards away. “What in time were they after?” frowned Collins. “If it wasn’t his money—and it sure wasn’t—what was it? I ce’tainly would like to know what the Wolf wanted so blamed bad. Guess I’ll not follow Mr. Leroy just now till my leg is in better shape. Maybe I had better investigate a little bit round town first.” The body was taken back to the Gold Nugget and placed on a table, pending the arrival of the undertaker. It chanced that Collins, looking absently over the crowd, glimpsed a gray felt hat that looked familiar by reason of a frayed silver band found it. Underneath the hat was a Mexican, and him the sheriff ordered to step forward. “Where did you get that hat, Manuel?” “My name is José—José Archuleta,” corrected the olive-hued one. “I ain’t worrying about your name, son. What I want to know is where you found that hat.” “In the alley off the plaza, señor.” “All right. Chuck it up here.” “_Muy bien, señor_.” And the dusty hat was passed from hand to hand till it reached the sheriff.