flying in his head by Simpson's explanation, which was more a confession than a boast, he hadn't words enough to go with them. But that was not a state that endured long with Wallace, who was, above all, a wordy man.
"Me and the sheriff we struck your trail at daylight this morning, away back there at the edge of the woods. We knew you'd got away with them horses, but we couldn't figger how in the hell you done it, Tom."
Wallace turned his sharp eye questioningly, with such an inquisitive look that Simpson could see curiosity was hurting him.
"Blind luck," said Tom. "We'd better hit it up—one of that gang got by me."
"Oh, he'll be all right," Wallace replied with comfortable assurance. "One man ain't goin' to keep Sheriff Treadwell busy more'n a minute or two. That's the speediest little feller with a gun in seven states."
"More speed to him!" Tom said fervently, thinking with a surge of gratitude of that moment when the sheriff galloped up and began to shoot. "How did you two come to be together on this job, Wallace?"
"I was down here scoutin' after some strays. He was headin' hell-bent after you, and I ast him to depytize me and let me go along. It don't do no good to be a dep'ty down here, but if a feller had a conscience, you know it might set easier if he had to fork out his iron and plug somebody. You remember I had a grudge agin that gang myself, Tom."
"You sure had, old feller."
"The sheriff he was skirtin' the timber, aimin' to take a cut through by an old loggin' road he knew, but it got
