He is supposed to be a timber-cruiser
and log-sealer, but I reckon he doesn't work very hard at his trade.
Down in the lower wards of New York they'd call him a boss heeler,
maybe. But you say 'hold-up'; you don't mean to tell me that Jack Barto
robbed you, son!"
"Oh, no; he held me up with a gun while his helpers pulled me off the
bronco and hog-tied me, and then fell to discussing with the other two
the advisability of knocking me on the head and dropping me into Lost
River Canyon--that's all. Of course, I knew they had stumbled upon the
wrong man; and after a while I succeeded in making Barto accept that
hypothesis; at least, he accepted it sufficiently to bring me here for
identification. Since he wouldn't talk, and I didn't recognize the trail
or the place, I hadn't the slightest notion of my whereabouts--not the
least in the world; didn't know where he was taking me or where I had
landed when we stopped here."
The big man was leaning against the foot-rail of the bed and frowning
thoughtfully. "Talked about dropping you into Lost River, did they? H'm.
I reckon we'll have to look into that a little. Who set them on, son?
Got any idea of that?"
"I have a very clear idea: it was this man Hathaway you speak of--a big
ranchman named Griggs told me his name. He came across in the Pullman
with me from Omaha; middle-aged, tall, and slim, with a hatchet face and
owlish eyes.
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