Thunder and Lightning Mendoza, two of Henry’s general helpers, sprawled on the shady side of the house. “Henry don’t need those two any more than he needs shoe-laces for a boot,” Judge had said. “I love every bit of ivory in their unused heads,” declared Henry. “They amuse me.” Henry looked them over soberly. He loved to question them as to just what they had done for the past week. Lightning seemed to be the more intelligent of the two. “Oh, we feex the corral,” he said expansively. “Put out ol’ fence-pos’, leave een a new ones. Cut leetle wood. Ver’ busy pippil.” “Sure,” agreed Thunder. “Ver’ nice jobs--I theenk. You know Profeezil?” Henry scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Profeezil?” he asked. “Sure,” grinned Lightning. “Profeezil. Got the long leg, glass on hees eye.” “Aw, he means Professor Fossil,” informed Slim Pickins. “Sure,” grinned Thunder. “We see heem.” “He came past here a while ago,” said Slim, “packin’ a short pick and a sack of rocks.” “Oh, yes,” murmured Henry. “Professor Fossil.” His right name was Charles Winston Norbert, Archaeologist. He was tall, thin and slightly stooped, possibly from carrying rock specimens. He had been in Wild Horse Valley for weeks, and had taken up his temporary abode at the Circle G ranch, from where he sampled the country. Even Pete Gonyer considered the man slightly touched in the head. Nearly every day he brought in a sack of samples, which he studied carefully, making voluminous notes in his book. “Except for eddication,” declared Frijole, “he’d make a first-class shepherd. He’s got the legs for it.” “_Mucho loco_,” declared Lightning. “Rock too damn h’avy.” “Ver’ seely pippil,” added Thunder. “He theenk feesh leeve on rock.” “Fossil fish,” explained Henry. “Sure--weeth a peek--not weeth a hooks,” said Lightning. “I think it is about time to surrender,” sighed Judge. * * * * * They were in bed that night, when Oscar Johnson came out there, knocking so hard on the front door that the whole house shook. Frijole opened the door, and said Oscar, “Val, hallo dere, Freeholey. Ay yust come out.” “That’s what I thought, when I heard yuh knock. What’s wrong? Have the Norwegians taken Tonto City?” “Norvegians! Ay can lick any Norvegian Ay ever--oh, hallo, Hanry!” Henry had stepped from his room, clad only in his full-length underwear, which had been made full-length for a full-length man. Henry was one succession of wrinkles. “What is wrong, Oscar?” he asked. “Oh, Ay forgot,” said Oscar, “Ol’ Ben Todd is dead.” Henry paddled out a little closer. “Ben Todd?” he asked. “You mean to say that Ben Todd is dead?” “Ay have de opinion of Doctor Bogart” “What killed him?” “Buckshot--t’rough a vindow.” “My goodness! Judge! Oh, Judge! Frijole, saddle our horses! Judge! Wake up! We have a murder!” Judge mumbled something about not being a Recording Angel, as he struggled into his clothes. Frijole had gone to saddle their two horses.