“Ben Todd vars in his little shack,” said Oscar, “and somebody shoots bockshot t’rough de vindow at him. Ay t’ink he vars dronk, but yust de same, he died.” “That’s queer!” declared Henry, struggling with his boots. “Nothing queer about murder,” said Judge. “Sordid, I’d say.” “Possibly, Judge. But why kill Old Ben? He was--oh, I forgot about the new strike they say he made!” “He vars spending gold,” said Oscar. “Ay saw it.” “Chunks of raw gold,” remarked Judge. “I saw some of it. Crushed out of gray quartz. And now he’s dead.” “You have your shoes on the wrong feet, Judge,” said Henry. “It might change our luck,” said Judge. “Let ’em stay.” * * * * * The body of the old prospector had not been moved. Doctor Bogart, the coroner, was waiting for them. Ben Todd had a little, old shack a short distance off the main street, where he batched, when in town. A load of buckshot had blown out one of the windows, and Ben Todd was sprawled on his bed. Evidently he had been killed, just as he was about to retire. His pockets still held several chunks of gold, possibly worth twenty dollars, but he had no money. On a shelf was an old, tin tobacco box, in which were some odds and ends, and in it was a folded paper. Henry unfolded it on the table. It was Ben Todd’s will, written in an inky sprawl, and said: I hereby give every thing I own to Violet La Verne because she grub-staked me. I ain’t got no relatives. --Ben Todd. “Violet La Verne?” queried Doctor Bogart. “One of the King’s Castle damsels,” said Henry grimly. “You know her, Judge.” “Why me?” asked Judge testily. “Everybody knows her.” “So she staked Ben Todd,” muttered Henry. “The will isn’t dated,” remarked the doctor. “No, that is true, Doc--but, still, it is a will.” “And Ben Todd was murdered,” pointed out Judge. “Just one more incentive for a _Clarion_ editorial.” “I read that last one,” said the doctor. “Something should be done to muzzle Mr. Pelly. We better get some help to move the body. You take charge of that will, Henry.” “Probably worthless,” said Judge. “He had nothing to leave.” “You forget his rich strike,” said Henry. “He may have plenty.” “Yes, I forgot,” admitted Judge. “At least he had enough to get himself blasted off this mortal coil--or presumed to have.” There was no use going back to the ranch, so they went up to their room at the Tonto Hotel. It was miserably hot up there. Judge kicked off his gaiters, flung his hat in a corner and sat down, a miserable specimen of the genus _homo_. Henry said nothing, sitting there on the edge of the bed, deep in thought. Judge got up slowly and went over to a small closet, where he picked up a jug and shook it carefully. Henry said slowly: