strolled in, and later Frank, and they all
took various positions before the fire. I saw Frank, with the quickness
of a sleight-of-hand performer, slip one of the pans of dough on the
chair Jones had placed by the table. Jim did not see the action;
Jones's and Wallace's backs were turned to Frank, and he did not know I
was in the cabin. The conversation continued on the subject of Jones's
big bay horse, which, hobbles and all, had gotten ten miles from camp
the night before.

"Better count his ribs than his tracks," said Frank, and went on
talking as easily and naturally as if he had not been expecting a very
entertaining situation.

But no one could ever foretell Colonel Jones's actions. He showed every
intention of seating himself in the chair, then walked over to his pack
to begin searching for something or other. Wallace, however, promptly
took the seat; and what began to be funnier than strange, he did not
get up. Not unlikely this circumstance was owing to the fact that
several of the rude chairs had soft layers of old blanket tacked on
them. Whatever were Frank's internal emotions, he presented a
remarkably placid and commonplace exterior; but when Jim began to
search for the missing pan of dough, the joker slowly sagged in his
chair.

"Shore that beats hell!" said Jim. "I had three pans of dough. Could
the pup have taken one?"

Wallace rose to his feet, and the bread pan clattered to the floor,
with a clang and a clank, evidently protesting against the indignity it
had suffered. But the dough stayed with Wallace, a great white
conspicuous splotch on his corduroys. Jim, Frank and Jones all saw it
at once.

"Why--Mr. Wal--lace--you set--in the dough!" exclaimed Frank, in a
queer, strangled voice. Then he exploded, while Jim fell over the table.

It seemed that those two Arizona rangers, matured men though they were,
would die of convulsions. I laughed with them, and so did Wallace,
while he brought his one-handled bowie knife into novel use. Buffalo
Jones never cracked a smile, though he did remark about the waste of
good flour.

Frank's face was a study for a psychologist when Jim actually
apologized to Wallace for being so careless with his pans. I did not
betray Frank, but I resolved to keep a still closer watch on him. It
was partially because of this uneasy sense of his trickiness in the
fringe of my mind that I made a discovery. My sleeping-bag rested on a
raised platform in one corner, and at a fa