The gun-man was lounging along at peace with all the world, his bridle
rein loose, his leg slung over the pommel of his saddle. At the sight of
his employer, he grinned cheerfully.
Oldham rode directly to him.
"Why aren't you attending to your job?" he demanded icily.
"Out of a job," said Saleratus Bill cheerfully.
"Why haven't you kept your man in charge?"
"I did until he just naturally had one of those unavoidable accidents."
"Explain yourself."
"Well. I ain't never been afraid of words. He's dead; that's what."
"Indeed," said Oldham, "Then I suppose I met his ghost just now; and
that a spirit gave me this cut lip."
Saleratus Bill swung his leg from the saddle horn and straightened to
attention.
"Did he have a hat on?" he demanded keenly.
"Yes--no--I believe not. No, I'm sure he didn't."
"It's him, all right." He shook his head reflectively, "I can't figure
it."
Oldham was staring at him with deadly coldness.
"Perhaps you'll be good enough to explain," he sneered--"five hundred
dollars worth at any rate."
Saleratus Bill detailed what he knew of the whole affair.
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