She told me that the old hunters who had lived back in the Catskills when she was a young girl in that same quaint little house, had been a rather questionable lot. It seemed that many of them carried on banditry as a sort of sideline. It was interesting to hear her talk of those old days and the wild surrounding country. I can’t for the life of me guess why people always turn their thoughts to the Far West when they feel the need of trappers and bandits and such. In the Ramapo Hills south of Central Valley there lived not sixty years ago an outlaw band who robbed stage-coaches and buried their booty in the ground. Well, the very first evening of my return to Bridgeboro up came Tom Slade and Brent Gaylong (whose folks have lately moved to town) and as we sat on the porch I told them in detail of my pleasant encounter with Long Buck Sanderson. They made a funny picture, those two, as they sat together in the swing seat, Tom in the khaki that he always wears in deference to his official connection with Temple Camp, and Brent, long and lanky, with his steel spectacles halfway down his nose. He placed them that way because I suppose it pleased him to have them thus absurdly adjusted while listening to a thrilling tale of adventure. He looked soberly receptive. “Proceed with your narrative,” he said. So I proceeded with my narrative, and when I had finished Tom said, “That’s all pretty good. But let me tell you one thing. I know more about these things than you do. I’ve met in with some shyster hunters in my camp work and I’ve met a lot of game wardens and rangers, too. You’ll find game wardens a pretty decent set of men--straight and clean. If a man’s going to go in for graft he doesn’t hit the woods--you can chalk that up on your score-board. They never took the old codger’s money--no siree!” “What do you know about game wardens in those old days?” I said. “You’re only twenty-three years old. Those were rough, lawless times. These are the times of daily good turns.” “And three thousand dollars is a lot of money to come home with,” said Tom. “It’s more than I ever came home with,” said Brent. “All right,” said I, waxing interested in the point. “Let’s say that Long Buck was wrong. Let’s say that that gang----” “They were no gang,” Tom shot back at me; “they were there to protect the wild life--for you and for me!” “For me too,” said Brent. “All right,” I said, undaunted. “Let’s say that Barney Wythe and his associates didn’t knock Mink Havers on the head and get the money. _Where is the money, then?_ It isn’t there in the well. Where is it? What became of it?” “Did you look under the Victrola when you were up there?” Brent asked soberly. “How about Havers?” Tom suggested. “You mean he put something over on his partner?” I shot back. “Let me tell you, if you can defend your game wardens, I can defend my woodsmen; they weren’t that kind and you can chalk _that_ up on your score-board.”