Racey looked sidewise from under his eyebrows at Jack Harpe. The latter was staring down unmoved at the dead body. "Somebody must 'a' had a grudge against Bull," offered the fool. "You think so?" said Piney. "Yo're a real bright feller." The fool subsided a second time. "Lookit here, Jake," Piney continued to the sheriff's address, "you don't have to kick my wood all over the county, do you?" "I'm lookin' for the knife," explained the sheriff, ceasing not to stub his toes against the solid chunks. "Feller after doing a thing like this gets flustrated sometimes and drops the knife. And finding the knife might be a help in locating the feller." All of which seemed sufficiently logical to the bystanders. Racey decided he had seen enough. Besides, he wanted to camp closer to his warbags. He should have been in his room before this, and he would have been had he cared to make himself conspicuous by not going along with the crowd to see what Piney Jackson had found. Declining Swing's earnest invitation to drink he returned to the hotel. Swing went grouchily to the Happy Heart, wondering what was the matter with his friend. It was not like the Racey he knew to play the hermit. Once in his room Racey again explored his own and Swing's saddlebags and _cantenas_, looked under the cots and through the bedclothes. But he found nothing that did not belong to either himself or Swing. "They didn't make a second trip," he said to himself. "I'm betting it's Jack Harpe. Shore it is, the polecat." Then in order to have a water-tight reason for remaining in the room he pulled off his boots and trousers, fished a housewife from a _cantena_, and set about repairing a rip in his trousers. It was a perfectly good rip. He had had it a long time. What more natural that on this particular day he should wish to sew it up? It was an hour later that he heard the tramp of several pairs of boots on the stairs. He could hear the wheezing, laboured breathing of Bill Lainey, the hotel proprietor. Climbing the stairs always bothered Bill. The latter and his followers came along the hall and stopped in front of Racey's door. "This is his room," panted Bill Lainey. Unceremoniously the latch was lifted. A man entered. The man was Jake Rule, the sheriff of Fort Creek County. He was followed by Kansas Casey, his deputy. Jake looked serious. But Kansas was smiling as he closed the door behind him. Then he opened it quickly and thrust his head into the hall. "No need of you, Bill," he said. "Aw right," said Bill, aggrievedly, and forthwith shuffled away. Kansas withdrew his head and nodded to Jake Rule. "He's gone," he said. Racey Dawson, sitting crosslegged on his cot and plying his needle in most workmanlike fashion, grinned comfortably at the two officers. Lord, how glad he was he had found that knife! If he hadn't-- "Sidown, gents," invited Racey. "There's two chairs, or you can have Swing's cot if you like."