The inquest over the body of Ben Todd attracted few people. Violet La Verne was called as a witness, because of the fact that she had been the sole heir to Ben Todd’s estate. She was defiant, tight-lipped, but stated that she had grub-staked Ben Todd about a month ago. “Did Ben Todd tell you he had made a rich strike?” Doctor Bogart asked her. “He never talked to me,” she replied. “How much money did you give Ben Todd, Miss La Verne?” “I don’t know--hundred dollars, I guess.” “You told the sheriff that you gave him fifty dollars.” “Did I? Maybe I did. What’s the difference?” “Mathematically--fifty dollars,” said the doctor dryly. “All right,” she said angrily, “it don’t make any difference. I lose--and the amount is my business.” “Did you know that Ben Todd had made you his sole heir?” “No!” emphatically. “He said he’d split with me--if he found a mine. Why should I be a witness in this--I don’t know who shot the old coot.” They excused Violet La Verne, and she swept out of the courtroom. The six-man jury grinned and brought in the usual verdict, killed by a person, or persons, unknown. “That woman knows something,” declared Judge quietly. “At her age--and occupation--she should,” agreed Henry. As they walked back to the office Judge said: “If that La Verne woman knew that Ben Todd had willed everything he owned to her--” “But she says she didn’t, Judge.” “My dear, Henry, you are a trusting soul. What is her word worth? She lied about the amount she gave Ben Todd.” “Only a matter of fifty dollars, Judge. It is possible that the woman is poor in mathematics.” “We are all entitled to our theories, sir,” said Judge, “and mine is that somebody was greatly surprised and pained when they discovered that Ben Todd did not locate and record that gold mine.” “It would, I believe,” said Henry soberly, “have added to his estate.” “As Shakespeare said,” smiled Judge, “there is something rotten in Denmark.” “At least, it is worth a sniff or two,” said Henry. In the afternoon mail came a notice from the express company that a new buckboard, consigned to the JHC ranch, had arrived in Scorpion Bend, and was ready for delivery. “Something more for those half-wits to destroy, Henry,” remarked Judge. “I hope they will be careful, Judge. This one has yellow wheels, red body, and is appropriately decorated.” “I shudder to think what it will have after Frijole, Slim or Oscar have a try at it. We should keep it here in the livery-stable, and only use it on state occasions.” “Such as?” queried Henry. “Well--going between here and the ranch, for instance. You know how I hate to ride a horse. Possibly we could use it for a trip to Scorpion Bend.” “It might give Mr. Pelly an idea for a new editorial,” laughed Henry. “The Shame of Arizona on Yellow Wheels.” “Anyway,” sighed Judge, “it is money wasted. Those prune-juicers at the JHC have no regard for property. I shudder to think what that buckboard will look like in a week.”