“Yuh can’t git away from it, Tony,” Johnny exclaimed. “He was lookin’ for somebody, and that somebody got him. Horsehair hat-bands ain’t uncommon. He wouldn’t have ripped it off his hat to keep folks from rememberin’ it. That Indian snake was what he’d have hid and he’d have unsnapped it and put it in his pants. But it’s against all sense to believe that he took off even the snake. He wanted to be recognized.” Johnny slapped his knee emphatically. “I tell you,” he declared, “the man what killed him tore off that band!” Tony shrugged his shoulders. “_Quien sabe!_” he muttered. Johnny was still for a minute. Then suddenly: “Say! That man had a horse when he came here. He didn’t walk into town.” “_Diga_, Johnny! He have beeg horse—Spanish horse.” “Come on! I’m goin’ to find him. The man must have had a bed-roll or a saddle-bag. We’ll have a look-see.” The places in Standing Rock where a man might stable a horse were not so numerous that it took Johnny and Tony any great time to find the big stallion. He was in Ed Brackett’s barn. It was Johnny’s intention to become possessed of the man’s personal effects if any there should be. For this very excellent reason he entered the barn without disturbing Brackett. Tony immediately recognized the big horse. The stallion eyed them nervously. A flow of liquid Spanish from the Basque reassured the horse. Johnny searched the pegs along the wall for the missing roll. A low word to Tony told the Basque that he had found what they came for. “Come on,” came the whisper. “We’ll drift back to the hotel and look this stuff over.” In their little room in the Palace they sorted out the man’s belongings—shirts, socks, handkerchiefs, and a little bag containing a sewing kit and odds and ends a lone man might be expected to carry. “Not much here,” Johnny said slowly. “Seems like a man would carry somethin’ personal. Anyways, it proves he didn’t hide that hat-band or Indian luck piece. It’d be here if he had.” Tony grunted in answer. Johnny picked up a shirt to stuff it back into the leather bag. As he did so a black wallet slipped out and fell upon the bed. “There’s somet’in’,” the Basque exclaimed. “Four hundred dollars! He wasn’t robbed, Tony! And here’s a picture—a kid’s picture!” Tony crowded close to look at it. “That’s too bad,” muttered Johnny. “Thought maybe I might recognize it. That was hopin’ for too much. But it’ll help some day. That’s a clew! I’ll just freeze on to it.” Putting the small photograph into his pocket, he proceeded to replace the other things in the old saddlebag. Tony watched him for several minutes. The Basque’s face showed dismay. At times he could not understand his gringo friend. He felt ignored now. Johnny caught the signs of distress. “But, Tony, you didn’t know the kid. You was back in that dear Spain when that little photo was snapped. _Muchachito_, you go to bed. Tomorrow we got plenty work to do. I got a clew now.”