"I've a note for ye from that Britisher."
We took the note, but we did not open it till our Californian friend
had disappeared. We had been butchered, but as yet the abominable fact
that a compatriot had skinned us was something we wished to keep to
ourselves.
"Great Minneapolis!" said Ajax. "Look at this!"
I saw a bank receipt for the exact sum which represented our bunch of
steers.
"Is that all?" I asked.
Ajax ought to have shouted for joy, but he answered with a groan.
"Yes; there isn't a line of explanation. He said we should hear from
him."
"And we have," I replied.
We returned to the ranch very soberly. When Ajax placed the bank
receipt in the safe, he kicked that solid piece of furniture.
"We'll drive in comfortably to-morrow, and find out what we can," he
observed.
"I don't think we shall find Johnson," I murmured.
Nor did we. The cashier testified to receiving the roll of notes, but
not the letter of introduction. We hunted high and low for Johnson;
but he was not.
"How did he get away without money?" he asked.
"He had money. I stuck a twenty-dollar bill into his coat pocket.
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