Bert Cole was beginning to think there was a most determined jinx on his trail. He and Pat Finney had diligently ridden the Indian reservation for two days in search of the squaw from whom they had bought their gloves, only to learn eventually that Widowboga and his squaw had gone to visit their cousins on the Wind River reservation, and would be gone all summer.
“That just about puts the kibosh on us,” Pat Finney lamented, for the first time giving way to a spirit of pessimism.
“Well, there’s nothin’ to keep you from driftin’,” Bert pointed out.
“Will you come?”
“No; I’ve changed my mind about all that. I’m goin’ to stick. If Blunt has me arrested I’ll stand trial. But I’m goin’ back an’ throw in with Babe Colatta, an’ I figger that’ll make Blunt lay off a while.”
“If I was poisoned
