Bill attempts to find out things, but we don’t talk much, and it’s dark when we climbs off at Mighty’s place. We hikes right over to the woodshed. Bill lights a match and looks inside, drops the match and don’t stop running for a hundred yards. Me and Chuck gallops with him for a ways, sort of sympathetic-like. “Bobcats!” whistles Bill. “Shed’s full of ’em!” Yuh never can tell what kind of a pet a nut like Mighty is liable to have, so we ain’t surprised a lot. “I ain’t afraid of no cat what ever lived,” states Chuck. “I’m going to get that box in spite of anything.” We pilgrims up close again, with our guns ready. Chuck finds an old newspaper, which he lights, and we peeks around the corner of the door, and looks right into the shiny eyes of two big cats. Three guns goes off at the same time, and three men went away. There ain’t a sound from the shed, so we sneaks back. “That’s good shooting,” applauds Bill. “Two shots killed ’em both, ’cause I shot in the ground.” “Sure was,” I agrees, “I did, too.” “Wonderful!” agrees Chuck. “They must ’a’ jumped high, ’cause mine went through the roof.” Chuck tosses in that burning paper. Them cats are still there but don’t move. “Rugs!” snorts Chuck. “Mighty is sort of a taxidermist, and he put them eyes in himself. They sure look natural.” We found that box. Chuck makes a presentation speech to the minion of the law, who recites a few appropriate words in return. Bill takes the box on his saddle-horn, and we goes back to Paradise. We gets McGuire and all the rest of Paradise’s population to see the grand opening. We assembles in Pelly’s saloon and Mike furnishes the hammer. “Gents,” states Bill, “this ain’t a complete exoneration of Telescope and Ames, but I reckon it clears ’em a plenty. The law recovers said stolen property, but I’ll let Mister Warner and Mister Peck tell the story. I can hunt lost things but I can’t tell a interesting story like some folks.” “You better superintend this, McGuire,” he continues. “It’s a lot of wealth to look upon.” He tears the top boards off, and Paradise gazes a plenty. Me and Chuck takes one gaze, and slips loose. We meets at the door, ambles around the corner and forks our broncs. I follers Chuck’s lead, and about a mile from town we stops and looks back. “Henry,” says he, sad-like, “who do you suppose put them rocks in that box?” “If I knew I’d be a murderer,” says I, and then it strikes me funny. “Box of scab-rock guarded by two mounted bobcats! Haw! Haw! Haw! Mister McFee, we hereby puts in your care and custody one box, the value of same being problematical. You being a duly elected officer of the law, and, we having faith in your integrity and sense of duty, turneth over said box to be dealt with as yuh see fit,” says I, quoting Chuck’s woodshed speech. “Value being problematical takes the curse of anyway, Hen,” says he. It’s about midnight when we arrives at the Cross J. The old man is in the bunk-house, and he looks us over, sad-like.