“Nope. It wasn’t much of a cut, ma’am. He’ll be all right. Harp is so darned tough and ornery that cold steel won’t never hurt him. I’ll betcha they’ll have to grind a new point on that knife.” Brick grinned, lifted his hat and walked on, watching her from the corner of his eye. She seemed undecided what to do, but finally went on toward the other end of town where the little schoolhouse was located. Brick laughed to himself and shook his head. “That’s what’s the matter, eh?” he chuckled. “School-teacher worryin’ about a skinny puncher. Huh! I won’t dare to tell Harp, that’s a cinch. Plumb ruin him for my use. By golly, I never do understand women. Still, she may like jew’s-harp music so much that she’s willin’ to overlook anythin’ else.” Bill Grant crossed from the saloon and joined Brick. “What do yuh make of it?” queried Grant. “Do yuh think that somebody tried to kill you and Harp last night?” Brick grinned, but without mirth. “Looks that-a-way, Bill. We were supposed to be in bed, yuh know.” “Sure.” “But we wasn’t, Bill. Me and Harp busted into some meat stealin’ last night and we danged near got our needin’s. They sure did outsmart us in great shape. Even stole our horses and we had to borrow a couple of mules from the Red Hill mine. Harp got a knife in his shoulder—and we don’t know a —— of a lot more than we did before.” “Who were the thieves, Brick?” “I can’t swear to anybody. That’s the worst of workin’ in the dark.” * * * * * Harp and Silent were coming from the doctor’s office, leading the mule that Harp had ridden in from the mine. Aside from being slightly pale Harp showed no ill-effects from his knife wound. He nodded to Grant and looked over the ruins. Silent had told him all about the explosion and fire; so he had no questions to ask. “Must ’a’ been warm around here,” was his only comment. “It sure was,” agreed Bill Grant. “My neck is still hot, and it was mostly all over when I got here. I’ll buy a drink.” As they started toward the saloon, Silent stepped in beside Brick and whispered— “There’s a saddle at the hitch-rack with a bullet-hole in the cantle.” “Who owns it?” asked Brick. “Meecham, the Silverton bank cashier, rode in on it a while ago.” “Sure it’s a bullet-hole, Silent?” “Y’betcha.” Brick squinted thoughtfully, as they lined up at the bar. Meecham was sitting at a card-table, reading a paper, paying no attention to any one. Leach and Cale Wesson were standing near the front of the room, talking about the fire, and, near the rear, Ike Welden and Slim Hunter were playing a listless game of pool. The bartender greeted Brick effusively and insisted that the drinks were “on the house.” “I was afraid yuh died in that fire, Brick. By golly, I’m sure glad to see yuh. And old Harp, too.” Brick grinned and looked over at Meecham. “Have a little drink, Meecham?” he asked. Meecham looked up at Brick and shook his head. “No, thank you.”