They pottered round tryin' to find some trace of Foy--blind fools!--till I met up with 'em.

I'd done gathered in that mizzable red-headed Joe Cowan on a give-out horse, claim-in' he'd been chousin' after broom-tails.

He'd planted Foy's horse, I reckon.

But it can't be proved, so I let him go.

He'll have to walk in; that's one good thing." "But Foy--where do you figure Foy's gone ?" "Maybe he simply was not," suggested Pringle, "like Enoch when he was translated into all European languages, including the Scandinavian." "Pringle, if you say another word I'll have you gagged!" said the exasperated sheriff.