“There’s also a saying, doctor,” said the scout, “that truth, crushed to earth, will rise again. By this accident to Red Thunderbolt, several things are proved. That loose rope--the one whose end is wrapped around the sycamore--belongs to me. I dropped it over Red Thunderbolt’s horns yesterday on the trail. When the steer got to the end of the rope, he jerked it away from my saddle and went on.” “But where did the other rope come from?” asked Perry. “Phelps,” said the scout, turning on the cattleman, “I wish you’d examine that smashed saddle wedged between the trees.” “No need for me to examine it,” answered Phelps. “I’ve already recognized it, Buffalo Bill--not only the saddle, but the saddlebags, as well. They’re Jake’s.” “The saddle and saddlebags he took with him when he went to Hackamore after the pay-roll money?” “Yes.” “You’re positive of that, are you?” “Of course I am. There can’t be any mistake.” “Very good. Now, let me sketch for you, very briefly, what happened to Jake Phelps. On his way home from town he encountered Red Thunderbolt. The maverick was still trailing the rope he had stolen from me. Very likely the steer charged Jake. Red Thunderbolt must have been in a killing mood after his experience with Red Steve, Nomad, and me yesterday. Jake didn’t get out of the way--perhaps he couldn’t. He had only a revolver. “Of course, a revolver is not very good artillery for attacking a veteran maverick like Red Thunderbolt. Jake, very foolishly, instead of taking to his heels and trying to make his escape, used his rope. He made a good cast, for, as you see, his noose dropped right over mine. Then, when Red Thunderbolt got to the end of the rope, the saddle cinches broke, and the saddle and saddlebags were stripped away. Jake was unhorsed, and quite likely got a bad tumble. The steer charged him, and one of the steer’s horns inflicted that peculiar bruise on Jake’s head--the injury which suggested that a club or some other blunt instrument had been used.” The doctor threw up his hands. “Holy mackerel!” he cried; “no wonder I couldn’t figure out what it was that had played hob with Jake. This is certainly the queerest thing that ever happened on the banks of the Brazos. Every detail of it is queer, and the farther you look into it the queerer it becomes. Buffalo Bill,” and here he faced the scout, “you and your pards have given this cattle country something to talk about for many a month to come.” “Do you grasp the logic of these events, Phelps?” queried the scout, giving his attention to the H-P rancher. “Are you willing to admit that circumstances, as we find them here, prove Nate Dunbar’s innocence?” “I don’t know what to think,” mumbled Phelps. “He don’t know what to think!” mimicked the doctor. “Say, Hank, if you’ve got brains why don’t you use ’em? Here’s a chance for you to recede gracefully from the fool position you’ve occupied ever since Jake was hurt. What are you going to do about it?”