However, he was unable to locate Ben. He talked with a bartender in the King’s Castle Saloon, who had seen Ben’s gold, and the bartender said it was true. Old Ben had his pockets full of the stuff, and was drinking heavily. The Yellow Warrior mine had been the hardest hit by thieves. It was the oldest mine in the valley, and had been once virtually abandoned as through, but a small syndicate of eastern men had purchased it and struck a new vein, which was so rich that high-graders had managed to steal the bulk of the output. Not only had they swiped the jewelry-ore piecemeal, but had broken in and got away with twelve sacks of selected stuff, ready to ship. An organized bandit gang had made it difficult to send gold or payrolls over the regular channels, and the sheriff’s office had not been able to cope with all the various crimes against the law. Bob Stickler, manager of the Yellow Warrior, was one of the leading agitators against the present regime of Henry Harrison Conroy. Stickler wanted protection--not a comedy trio. The Three Partners and the Smoke Tree mine were not complaining vociferously. They had little high-grade stuff to steal, but they were concerned over the robbery of the Yellow Warrior payroll. The Yellow Warrior syndicate had also purchased the King’s Castle Saloon, which was being operated by Mack Greer, a newcomer to Tonto City. Henry sighed over the changes in Tonto. He told Judge, “When a man complains about changes in his community, he must be getting old.” “You are,” nodded Judge soberly. “I am not!” Henry was emphatic, and added quietly, “I love peace and quiet. This damnable town clatters like a tin-pan shivaree for twenty-four hours, on end. Let us go out to the ranch and put our feet on the porch-railing, Judge. I would enjoy the song of a little bird.” They were an incongruous couple on horseback. Judge rode a short-coupled roan, and his long feet almost reached the ground, while Henry perched high on a leggy sorrel, his legs reaching only to the middle of the lanky animal. Judge hated a saddle. In fact, he rarely used the stirrups, preferring to let his legs dangle loosely, and instead of the high-heel boots he wore what was known as Congress-gaiters, well-worn and the elastic sides gaping. * * * * * Oscar Johnson was left in charge. The giant Swede, who dwarfed that little office, nodded solemnly when Henry said they were going to the ranch. “Ay vill run it, Hanry,” he said, “and Ay hope Tames Vadsworth Longfeller Telly comes ha’ar. Ay have bone to pick vit him.” “What bone is that, Oscar?” asked Henry. “His,” replied Oscar blandly. There was nothing ornate about the JHC ranchhouse. The old frame house tilted west, while the front porch tilted east, and the railing around the porch sagged to the north. Frijole had a mulligan stew on the stove, and more of his devil’s brew in a jug.