"That's all right. Can't blame you, Bud. Butch working for me, it does look kinda leery around here. But you can't do two things at once, very handy, and I'm damned if I'll stand for any man of mine pulling off a stunt like this and giving the Frying Pan a black eye with my neighbors." "Go ahead and _look_, why don'tcha?" Butch challenged mockingly. "Sure, you'll try 'n' keep yore standin', Kid--you ain't got a man that don't know you'd quit him cold in a pinch, and save yore own bacon! Go ahead an' _look_!" "You bet I'll look!" Kid picked up the reins, ran his hand reassuringly along the shoulder of the brown horse, grasped the horn and gave the saddle a little shake, and began untying Butch's slicker from behind the cantle, his fingers probing into the folds. "How much was it, Bud?" "I don't know. It was gold, and there must have been several thousand dollars, at a rough guess. Nobody meddled with it--except the man that took it. Three or four regular coin bags, there ought to be." Kid pulled off the slicker and slapped it on the ground, wide open and empty. Butch carried no saddle pockets, and there was no place on the saddle where a package of any size could be hidden. Butch laughed unpleasantly. "There ain't a darned thing, Bud." Kid turned and looked at the two. There was an awkward silence. "Well, ain't somebody goin' to apologize?" Butch still had that mocking tone. "Bud's had a pipe dream, that's all. Now, I'll tell yuh where I been, and Bud c'n prove it easy enough. I been over to the Meddalark. I admit I went over there t' see Lark about gittin' a job. I stayed to dinner, and all the boys is gone but that pilgrim; yore black horses is in the bronch corral, Bud, and the kid's ridin' a pinto pony around he calls Huckleberry. Need any more proof, or does that convince yuh that I was _there_, all right?" Butch's tone was arrogant, though he was careful to make no offensive movement. "Oh, you were there, no doubt. That doesn't let you out, Butch. Tell me where you were between four and five this afternoon!" "Awn the road home," Butch drawled. Bud twitched off Butch's hat and held it up in his left hand so that the edge of the brim was silhouetted against the stars. "Look here, Kid. I suppose he'll say he bit that nick out of his hatbrim! Ever see a prettier bullet mark? Just about the size a .45 would make as nearly as I can tell in this light. Just for curiosity, Butch, how did you get that?" Bud's voice, that had been merely grim and unyielding, rang with triumph. "None of yore damn' business. Is that plain enough, or shall I spell it?" "No," said Bud softly, "you needn't spell it, Butch." Followed another silence, which Kid broke placatingly. "If Butch done what you think he done, Bud, I'm after him like a wolf. But if this is all the proof you got, why--you ain't got _any_, that's all." He stopped on the brink of saying more and looked from one to the other.