“Why’d you let the other fella go?” inquired one. Budd smiled and pushed through to the porch. He expanded his lungs and bellowed at the pine trees. “Oh, Bill! She’s all settled!” Then he made further explanations. “I don’t _know_ that he’s hereabouts, but I’m figgerin’ so. He ain’t the kind to run off ’thout tryin’ to clear his name, and I guessed he’d try to catch Sam in the act o’ cachin’ the money somewheres in the woods, or else raisin’ the cache.” Footsteps thumped on the porch, and Bill, drenched with the night dew and tousle-haired, came up. “You old son of a gun,” said he. “You’re purty shrewd. I figgered you’d make a play like that. Saw it in yore face last night.” He held out his hand for a cigarette. “When mornin’ comes I’ll show you where Sam hid the four hundred dollars. I was in the brush an’ saw him go to the place this afternoon. That’s when all the boys were threshin’ the thicket for me. Shucks, don’t you know it’s a hard job to ketch an old hand in the brush?” There was a call from the porch; a woman’s urgent command. “Bill!” Bill grinned. “Reckon she’s been tryin’ to clear me, too. Tried to foller Sam this afternoon, but got lost and ran plump into me.” “Still mad, is she?” asked Budd. Bill passed him a wink and elbowed his way out of the room. [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 13, 1926 issue of _Western Story Magazine_.]