“Wooden box with two ends and four sides. Regular dynamite box.” “Well described,” applauds Muley. “All we got to find is a wooden box, with two ends and four sides.” Art Miller comes back in about an hour for some things of Telescope’s, and we talks it over with him. “Must ’a’ been Telescope or the party what held her up that other time,” says he. “The feller that me and Chuck fussed around with didn’t have no limp.” “Maybe the exercise that you and Chuck gave him made him stiff and sore,” I suggests, and Art grins. “Maybe. Funny thing about that hold-up. After that feller helps himself he must ’a’ scared that team, ’cause they runs away and scatters things all the way up to ‘Mighty’ Jones’ place, where they smashes a front wheel on a stump and stops. “Ricky says there was a box of dynamite from the Golden Cross, the same of which he holds careful in the seat. He said that he was meek when held up, ’cause he was afraid that feller might shoot into that box. That box is a goner, and it’s a wonder it didn’t blow that outfit to thunder—unless that’s the treasure-box.” Art pilgrims back towards town, and we all starts for the corral. “Where yuh going?” asks Muley. “After some dynamite dough,” says all three of us together. We rides up and down that road from the ford to Mighty’s place, but we don’t find nothing. We stops at the old Soda Springs trail, which shows fresh tracks. By mutual consent we turns up the trail. About half a mile up the crick we discovers a camp. We recognizes old “Frenchy” Timmons as the party humped over the fire, tossing flapjacks, so we rides up and greets him. He’s got a couple of moth-eaten burros nosing around his little tent. Frenchy is so crooked that he’s suspicious of himself. He’s one of them kind of prospectors what goes around with the feeling that every man what speaks kindly to him is laying to beat him out of the next strike he makes. He looks up through a decade of whiskers and grunts a greeting. “How’s your stock of location notices holding out, Frenchy?” asks Muley. “For a man with only two burros you can make more ‘discoveries’ than any sourdough I ever seen.” “Yah-h-h-h!” gurgles Frenchy, way back in the whiskers. “I find heem sometame, Mooley.” “You dang well know yuh—yuh sure have, Frenchy. Look!” Muley points behind Frenchy, and there one end sticking out of the brush, is a wooden box, and the word “DYNAMITE” fairly yelps at us in big letters. Frenchy turns to see what we’re looking at, and the son-of-a-gun reaches for his six-shooter. He was years too late. Me and Chuck have him covered before he can touch his gun, and he stands there like a lamb, while Muley balances that box in front of him on the saddle-horn. “Next time yuh better find out who owns things before yuh picks ’em up for yourself,” advises Chuck. “Throw that gun over in the brush! That’s the stuff. Now keep your mouth shut! Sabe?”