Mighty seems to have drowned his feelings, and he’s spending his afternoon trying to hold up the hitch-rack. The old man goes in the saloon, but me and Chuck goes over to have a interview with our enemy. He nods at us like an owl. “Tut-tut-tried to bub-blow me up,” he stutters, “Tha’s mean thing to-to-to do.” “Tell us all about it, old-timer,” says Chuck, helping the old boy let loose of the rack, and leading him over to the sidewalk. “What’s all this dynamite stuff I’m hearing about?” Mighty gets very deliberate in his language: “Eighty pershent. Tha’s good powder. Sabe? Good powder but too ener-zhetic. Know what I mean? Mine’s eighty per shent. Stage runs away and sehtops at my place. I find box of shixty per shent. Sabe? Eighty too dangeroush to pack, so I exchanges. Sabe. Same price. Eighty per shent too easy on trigger. Know what I mean? Lissen; shomebody mus’ ’a’ stole that eighty from the stage, and I can’ fin’ mine. Sabe?” “Think!” yelps Chuck. “Think where yuh put it, Mighty!” Mighty bobs his head and screws up his face: “I know. Tha’s the box Muley tried to assassinate me with.” “That was eighty per cent.!” yells Chuck. “Doyuh get that? It was eighty per cent.!” “Zas so? Fool to drop eighty per shent. Awful careless.” “Where did you put that box you took off the stage?” I asks, pronouncing every word distinct and separate. Mighty is so danged absent-minded that yuh got to make him remember. “You took it out of the stage, and then what did you do with it?” “Somebody must ’a’ stole—whoa! I know! In the woodshed. I thought I put it in the barn. Ain’ that the limit? Mus’ go and turn poor old Muley loosh. Yes, sir. He never stole nothing.” “That’s right,” applauds Chuck. “Go right over and tell the sheriff to turn him loose.” “I got to shee Ricky firsht,” states the old pelican, wise as a barn owl. “Mus’ shee if Ricky wants to hold him for stealing that eighty per shent. Mighty Jones is law-abiding pershon. Know what I mean?” We watches Mighty weave down the street, and Chuck grins all over his face— “We’ll find Telescope’s and Muley’s broncs, and we’ll go up to Mighty Jones’ woodshed and rescue that money.” We finds both broncs in Pelly’s barn, so we saddles up and fares forth. We don’t fare far until we meets Bill McFee. We stops and asks Bill if there’s anything new. “Nope,” says he. “I reckon we got ’em in jail.” “So?” says Chuck. “Bill, how would you like to take a ride with us and bring back that seven thousand?” Bill grins like it was a good joke: “Uh-huh. I’d admire that. What’s the joke?” “Ain’t no joke, Sheriff,” says I. “You go with us and bring the gold back. Is that satisfactory?” “I’d admire to know a little more.” “Not at all necessary,” says Chuck. “Election is only three months away, and the credit ain’t going to hurt yuh none, Bill.” “That’s sensible,” agrees Bill. “I’m with yuh.”