The chief said: 

“About seven years ago there used to be an old fraud named Skinner, a sort of horse-doctor, who stepped somewhat over the line and walked off with some other fellow’s nag.  He is now putting in his time at Jefferson City.  He was hale fellow well met with all that gang, especially Swanson, and I think if you could run down to Jefferson City, put the case before the warden, you could get pointers from him.”

That afternoon Chip was in Jefferson City, and walking over to the penitentiary, found the warden willing, and Skinner was called to the visitor’s cage,

He had three years more to serve, and, on being told that any service he could render the State would be taken into account and to his credit, he gave Chip a minute and detailed description of his costume, manner of doing business, and brought up many interesting reminiscenses, which Chip carefully noted.

Sam, who had a peculiar talent for disguises, was to take the part of Doctor Skinner, and Chip as his negro servant could slip in and out without attracting much attention.

It was in these assumed characters that the detectives made their entre into Swanson’s habitat.

Further private conversation was barred by the massive form of Swanson filling the door, and urging his friend the Doctor to let “his nigger” take charge of the stock.

“Can’t be did, colonel,” said the Doctor, “can’t be trusted alone near this pack.  Scip has too much love for the bottom of the flask to allow him too much freedom here.”

“Well, I’ll send one of the boys out.  Hyar, you, Abe; mosey out thar and yank that pack in hyar.”

Abe, a strong, strapping young plainsman, lifted the pack to his shoulder, and, followed by the “Easy, young man; step lightly; glass, you know; this side up with care,” of the doctor, deposited it upon the floor.

Opening the pack the Doctor held aloft a large square bottle, on which was pasted a yellow label, “Dr. Skinner’s Incomparable Horse Healer,” commenced rapidly to dilate upon the peculiar excellence of the nostrum.

“Gentleman, what is good for the noble brute is good for man.  This compound, this superior selection of seventeen separate solvents is warranted to dissipate the most chronic complaints.  It will incite slumber, mend the broken heart, cause the hair to grow, is good for chapped hands, sore eyes and ingrowing toe-nails.  It is a panacea for all evils and a trial will cost you nothing.”

He passed the bottle to Swanson, who stood listening to his glib tongue in amused wonder, and invited him to test the medicine.  Nothing loth, the giant took a huge drink.

“Whisky,” he shouted, joyfully, “the real, old stuff,” and smacking his lips he again applied them to the bottle.  It was passed around, and the doctor at once became the most popular man on the ranche.

Scip, who had finally succeeded in securing his horses to his satisfaction, during which time he had made a tour of the premises and obtained the lay of the land, now entered the room and pushing his way through the crowd gathered around the Doctor and his bottle of “cure all,” spread his hands to the fire, standing beside Cummings.