Applehead, having plenty of reasons for avoiding publicity, had gone into
retirement in the shade of a clump of brush, with Lite to keep him company
while he smoked a meditative pipe or two and studied the puzzle of Ramon's
probable whereabouts.
"Can't trust a Navvy," he muttered in a discreet undertone to Lite. "I've fit
'em b'fore now, 'n' I KNOW. 'N' you kin be dang sure they ain't fergot the
times I've fit 'em, neither! There's bucks millin' around here that's jes'
achin' fer a chanst at me, t' pay up fer some I've killed off when I was shurf
'n' b'fore. So you keep 'n ,eye peeled, Lite, whilst I think out this yere
dang move uh Ramon's. 'N' if you see anybody sneakin' up on me, you GIT him. I
cain't watch Navvyies 'n' mill things over in m' haid at the same time."
Lite grinned and wriggled over so that his back was against a rock. He laid
his six-shooter Ostentatiously across his lap and got out his tobacco and
papers. "Go ahead and think, Applehead," he consented placidly. "I'll guard
your scalp-lock."
Speaking literally, Applehead had no scalplock to guard. But he did have a
shrewd understanding of the mole-like workings of the criminal mind; and with
his own mind free to work on the problem, he presently declared that he would
bet he could land Ramon Chavez in jail within a week, and sent Lite after
Luck.
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