“What are you fellers trying to do?” he asks. “The sheriff sure is one sore person. Says he can prove that one or both of you was mixed up in that robbery.” “Aw ——!” snorts Chuck. “I thought it was the right box.” “It was. McGuire identified it. The question is this: you knowed where the box was—where are the contents? That’s what Paradise wants to know.” “Paradise ain’t got nothing on us, eh, Chuck?” says I. “If they wanted to know any worse than we do they’d all be sick.” Me and Chuck talks it all over and decides that the longer we’re out of jail the more they’ll have against us when we do get in, so we decide to give ourself up before we’re liable to capital punishment. * * * * * The next morning we rides away to be locked up in self-defense. Just outside of Paradise we overtakes an Injun. He’s jogging along on a glass-eyed pinto, and he grins when he sees Chuck. Chuck stands in with all the aborigines. “Hello, Tenas Charley,” grins the buck. “Hello, Hiawatha,” grins Chuck. “Where you go so early?” “You sabe Doc Milliken?” “You bet. Why you wantum?” “Givum letter. Me got letter. White man hurtum leg. No walk. Me go to Doc Milliken. Sabe?” He fusses around in his blanket and produces a piece of paper. Chuck takes the paper and reads the few words. He hands me the letter and grins. It reads like this: Hurt my leg. Follow the Injun to me. There ain’t no name signed. “Heap scared,” informs the Injun. “Hurtum leg on tree.” “Where you camp?” asks Chuck, and we gets informed that it’s on Little Beaver Crick. Chuck gives him back the letter, and swings around. “So long, Setting Bull,” says he, and the Injun grins and bobs off down the road. “Now where?” I asks, and Chuck grins, “Slippery Silverton!” he whoops. “If it was anybody around here they’d ‘a’ signed their name. He’s hived up with that Injun, and we’re going to land him, Henry. Maybe he’s got the gold, too.” It didn’t take us long to find that camp. We advances on foot. There’s a white man setting on the sunny side of that teepee, and he’s in blissful ignorance until me and Chuck lands on his shoulders like two playful bears. He gets energetic, but Chuck taps him on the head with his gun, and we hog-ties him proper. When he opens his eyes Chuck grins at him an’ says— “Hello, Slippery.” He don’t say a word. “Don’t talk,” advises Chuck. “Yuh might wear out your teeth.” The feller looks at us, foolish-like, so we hoists him up on Chuck’s bronc, and Chuck rides behind him. Once he opened his mouth and spoke one line: “You fellers are an hour late.” That’s all he said. I reckon Chuck hit him pretty hard. We pilgrims right into Paradise, and up to Pelly’s saloon. There ain’t a soul in sight, but we observes signs of life down where we holds our court. We takes our captive down there, cuts the ropes off his legs and takes him inside.