“She braved the dangers of the iron trail, Maybe she rode on boats that have a sail, And all was well, Until she came to peaceful Paradise, Where everybody leaves who has the price. Fate sure is—!!” “Amen,” says Telescope. “You handled that well, Muley.” “Gents,” says I, “don’t be sacrilegious. You are now standing in the presence of the bereaved brother-in-law. The lost lady was his wife’s sister.” “Shucks!” exclaims Telescope, trying to remove the hat he ain’t got. “This is painful, Wick. Where’s your outfit?” “Holy henhawks!” wails Wick. “You fellers bucked over it and through it, et cettery, and left me setting on the bank on a busted box of dynamite, with nothing left but my rifle—and Hen threw that in the jungle. The rest, if there’s anything left, is likely on its way to Piperock.” “And we’re on foot,” wails Chuck. “My tobacco is wet, and there ain’t a drink in the crowd, and——” “And Shakespeare’s dead, and Longfellow’s dead, and I don’t feel very good myself,” finishes Muley. “And we’ve got to find that runaway,” says I. “They’re likely at the ranch—unless they’re strung out along the road.” “My wife will give me particular thunder,” wails Wick. “She ain’t expecting me to bring back no deceased sister-in-law—darn it all! I reckon we better toddle over to the ranch, eh?” “I know a short-cut,” offers Chuck. “We’ll walk back over that ridge and swing on to the road on the other side of Ghost Gulch. That’s only about four miles.” “And still four miles from the ranch,” groans Muley. “And us wearing high-heeled boots.” “Ye gods, I wish I had that rifle,” grunts Wick. “I’d kill four punchers right here.” “Death ain’t nothing,” groans Muley, limping along. “Hell hath no fury like a blistered heel, That busts and then begins to peel.” It’s dark when we got to the Cross J ranch, and we limps in like five lost souls. There ain’t a trace of that buckboard or the lady. There ain’t nobody around the place. “My gosh!” wails Wick. “Something has got to be did. She was my wife’s sister.” “Why use the past tense?” complains Muley. “Maybe she still is your wife’s sister. We’ll be square with her, Wick, and consider her alive until she disappoints us.” “I know where the old man keeps his spirits,” states Chuck, fussing with a window. “You fellers feel spirit voices calling?” We did. Chuck found the cache, and we has quite a seance. “Walking is too slow,” complains Wick. “I’ve got to go faster than that, boys. Ain’t there a danged thing around here I can ride upon? “Ain’t you _hombres_ got enough _sabe_ in your system to know that out there somewhere in the stilly night is a remnant of my wife’s family, crying for succor?” “Might he not ride, Solomon?” asks Chuck, wiggling his ears at Muley. “Beyond question he may,” nods Muley. “Hang a hull on Solomon, Chuck, and let the sucker arrive at his wife’s sister’s side without delay.” “Solomon is which?” asks Wick.