“Wonderful!” exclaims Muley. “It stood rough handling but I never thought a face like yours could look upon eighty per cent. dynamite and not explode it. That’s why I went away so rapid.” The old man is home when we gets there, and he announces that Telescope and Archibald Ames are still in jail. “What does Archibald have to say about it?” I asks. “That fat four-flusher!” yelps the old man. “He says that Telescope might ’a’ done it. Of course this Ames feller don’t fit the description, but he might at least—aw——” “I’m going down to see Telescope,” announces Muley. “He lies down there in durance vile Behind the bolts and locks, With prison staring in his face ’Cause we can’t find that box. That held a little bunch of gold, Which was labeled dynamite. Will we let our pal wear striped clothes?” “Not by a gol-danged sight!” I finishes, being somewhat of a poet myself. Muley shakes my hand and invites me to join the Perverted Order of Paradise Poets, of which he’s the only living member. “Don’t tell too much down there, Muley,” advises Chuck. “If you runs off at the mouth I might get eased into jail, and that would cut down the number of detectives on the case. Sabe?” “Fear not,” says Muley. “I go but to bring cheer to the needy. I will be back anon.” About three hours later Doughgod Smith rides in, and we walks out to where him and the old man are greeting each other. “If this keeps on, Whittaker, you’re going to be short of men,” states Doughgod. “Huh!” grunts the old man. “One man don’t make no difference this time of year. Three punchers is enough to set around and play cards, and eat up good grub.” “You only got two left now,” says Doughgod. “Muley’s in jail, too.” “Muley!” snorts the old man. “What’s he in for?” “Stealing dynamite from Mighty Jones.” Chuck had started to set down on his heels, but when Doughgod’s information hits his ears he sprawls flat on his back and blinks at the sky. I starts to lean on a buckboard wheel that is ten feet away, and I ends up on my back with my feet over the tongue. “Mighty spoke of some folks being accessory to the fact, too,” states Doughgod, offhand-like. “Stealing dynamite!” yelps the old man. “Where, when and what for?” “I don’t know. Mighty comes to town and acts like a man what has had delirious delight scared out of him. He anchors to Pelly’s bar until he’s gained normal again, and then he speaks knowingly of powder-thieves. Mighty’s half-loco, and what ain’t loco is absent-mindness, but just the same he has Muley arrested, and he hints of more arrests as soon as certain persons hit town. I seen Muley, and he said if I came this way to have Chuck and Hen come to see him.” “That’s right,” agrees the old man. “We’ll all go down.” “Not me,” says I. “I got rheumatic pains in my knees. Notice how I fell over that buckboard handle? I ain’t myself today, and I simply couldn’t stand it to ride.”