I proceeded to tell him something of the old man’s methods, from the “boomerang” to vicarious murder.

“And he gets away with it?” asked Brower when I had finished.

“He certainly does,” said I.  “Now,” I continued, “you may be solid as a brick church, and your plans may be water-tight, and old Hooper may kill the fatted four-year-old, for all I know.  But if I were you, I wouldn’t go sasshaying all alone out to Hooper’s ranch.  It’s altogether too blame confiding and innocent.”

“If anything happens to me, I’ve left directions for those contracts to be recorded,” he pointed out.  “Old Hooper knows that.”

“Oh, sure!” I replied, “just like that!  But one day your trustworthy friend back yonder will get a letter in your well-known hand-write that will say that all is well and the goose hangs high, that the old man is a prince and has come through, and that in accordance with the nice, friendly agreement you have reached he—­your friend—­will hand over the contract to a very respectable lawyer herein named, and so forth and so on, ending with your equally well-known John Hancock.”

“Well, that’s all right.”

“I hadn’t finished the picture.  In the meantime, you will be getting out of it just one good swift kick, and that is all.”

“I shouldn’t write any such letter.  Not ’till I felt the feel of the dough.”

“Not at first you wouldn’t,” I said, softly.  “Certainly not at first.  But after a while you would.  These renegade Mexicans—­like Hooper’s Ramon, for example—­know a lot of rotten little tricks.  They drive pitch-pine splinters into your legs and set fire to them, for one thing.  Or make small cuts in you with a knife, and load them up with powder squibs in oiled paper—­so the blood won’t wet them—­and touch them off.  And so on.  When you’ve been shown about ten per cent, of what old Ramon knows about such things, you’ll write most any kind of a letter.”

“My God!” he muttered, thrusting the ridiculous derby to the back of his head.

“So you see you’d look sweet walking trustfully into Hooper’s claws.  That’s what that newspaper ad was meant for.  And when the respectable lawyer wrote that the contract had been delivered, do you know what would happen to you?”

The ex-jockey shuddered.

“But you’ve only told me part of what I want to know,” I pursued.  “You got me side-tracked.  This daughter of the dead pardner—­this girl, what about her?  Where is she now?”

“Europe, I believe.”

“When did she go?”

“About three months ago.”

“Any other relatives?”

“Not that I know of.”

“H’m,” I pondered.  “What does she look like?”

“She’s about medium height, dark, good figure, good-looking all right. 
She’s got eyes wide apart and a wide forehead.  That’s the best I can do. 
Why?”

“Anybody heard from her since she went to Europe?”