"Do you want him so bad that yo're willin' to let th' real killer get away?" asked Johnny. "You only have to wait an' we'll get both."
"What d'ye mean?"
"You don't believe he shot Ridley without bein' told to do it, do you?"
"Kane told him; I know it as plain as I know my name."
"Knowin' ain't provin' it, an' provin' it is what we got to do."
"’Tis th' curse av th' Irish, jumpin' first an' thinkin' after," growled Quayle. "Go wan!"
"Yo're friends with McCullough," said Johnny. "Mac knows a little; an' I'm near certain he's heard of Hopalong Cassidy an' Red Connors, of th' Bar-2O. Don't forget th' names: Hopalong Cassidy an' Red Connors, of th' old Bar-2O in th' Pecos Valley. Buck Peters was foreman. I want you to go down an' pay him a friendly visit, and tell him this," and Quayle listened intently to the message.
"Bye," chuckled the proprietor, "ye leave Mac to me. We been friends for years, an' Tom Ridley was th' friend of us both. But, lad, ye may die; an' Bill Long may die—life is uncertain annywhere, an' more so in Mesquite, these days. If yer a friend av Tim Quayle, slip me th' name av th' man that murdered Ridley. I promise ye to kape han's off—an' I want no reward. But it fair sickens me to think his name may be lost. Tom was like a brother."
"If you knew th' man you couldn't hold back," replied Johnny. "Here: I'll tell Idaho, an' Ed Doane. If Bill
