an' Zambesi—all through British Central Africa."
"How in the world did you get to Australia?" Eden wondered.
"Oh, I don't know, boy. I was filibusterin' down along the South American continent fer a while, an' then I drifted into a Mexican campaign. Seems like there was somethin' I wanted in Australia—anyhow, I got there. Jest the way I got here. It was over yonder, an' I went."
Eden shook his head. "Ye gods, I'll bet you've seen a lot!"
"I guess I have, boy. Doctor over in Redlands was tellin' me t'other day—you need spectacles, he says. 'Hell, Doc,' I says, 'what fer? I've seen everything,' I says, and I come away."
Silence fell. Bob Eden wasn't exactly sure how to go about this business; he wished he had Chan at his elbow. But his duty was clear.
"You—er—you've been here for three or four days, you say?"
"'Bout that, I reckon."
"Do you happen to recall where you were last Wednesday night?"
The old man's eyes were keen enough as he glanced sharply at the boy. "What if I do?"
"I was only going to say that if you don't, I can refresh your memory. You were at Madden's ranch house, over near Eldorado."
Slowly Mr. Cherry removed his slouch hat. With gnarled bent fingers he extracted a toothpick from the band. He stuck it defiantly in his mouth. "Maybe I was. What then?"
"Well—I'd like to have a little talk with you about that night."
Cherry surveyed him closely. "You're a new one on me," he said. "An' I thought I knew every sheriff an' deputy west o' the Rockies."
"Then you'll admit something happened at Madden's that might interest a sheriff?" returned Eden quickly.
"I ain't admittin' nothin'," answered the old prospector.
"You have information regarding last Wednesday night at Madden's," Eden persisted. "Vital information. I must have it."
"Nothin' to say," replied Cherry stubbornly.
Eden took another tack. "Just what was your business at Madden's ranch?"
Mr. Cherry rolled the aged toothpick in his mouth. "No business at all. I jest dropped in. Been wanderin' the desert a long time, like I said, an' now an' ag'in I drifted in at Madden's. Me an' the old caretaker, Louie Wong, was friends. When I'd come along he'd stake me to a bit o' grub, an' a bed in the barn. Sort o' company fer him, I was. He was lonesome-like at the ranch—only a Chink, but lonesome-like, same as if he'd been white."
"A kindly old soul, Louie," suggested Eden.
"One o' the best, boy, en' that's no lie."
Eden spoke slowly. "Louie Wong has been murdered," he said.
"What's that?"
"Stabbed in the side last Sunday night near the ranch gate. Stabbed—by some unknown person."
"Some dirty dog," said Mr. Cherry indignantly.
"That's just how I feel about it. I'm not a policeman, but I'm doing my best to find the guilty man. The thing you saw that night at the ranch, Mr. Cherry, no doubt has a decided bearing on the killing of Louie. I need your help. Now, will you talk?"
Mr. Cherry removed the toothpick from his mouth and, holding it before him, regarded it thoughtfully. "Yes," he said, "I will. I was hopin' to keep out o' this. Judges an' courts an' all that truck ain't fer me. I give 'em a wide berth. But I'm a decent man, an' I ain't got nothin' to hide. I'll talk, but I don't hardly know how to begin."
"I'll help you," Eden answered, delighted. "The other night when you were at Madden's ranch perhaps you heard a man cry, 'Help! Help! Murder! Put down that gun. Help.' Something like that, eh?"
"I ain't got nothin' to hide. That's jest what I heard."
Eden's heart leaped. "And after that—you saw something—"
The old man nodded. "I saw plenty, boy. Louie Wong wasn't the first to be killed at Madden's ranch. I saw murder done."
Eden gasped inwardly. He saw Paula Wendell's eyes wide and startled. "Of course you did," he said. "Now go on and tell me all about it."
Mr. Cherry restored the toothpick to its predestined place in his mouth, but it interfered in no way with his speech.
"Life's funny," he began. "Full o' queer twists an' turns. I thought this was jest one more secret fer me an' the desert together. Nobody knows about you, I says. Nobody ain't goin' to question you. But I was wrong, I see, an' I might as well speak up. It's nothin' to me, one way or t'other, though I would like to keep out o' courtrooms—"
"Well, maybe I can help you," Eden suggested. "Go on. You say you saw murder—"
"Jest hold yer horses, boy," Mr. Cherry advised. "As I was sayin', last Wednesday night after dark I drifts in at Madden's as usual. But the minute I comes into the yard, I see there's something doin' there. The boss has come. Lights in most o' the windows, an' a big car in the barn. Longside Louie's old flivver. Howsomever, I'm tired, an' I figures I'll jest wait round fer Louie, keepin' out o' sight o' the big fellow. A little supper an' a bed, maybe, kin be negotiated without gettin' too conspicuous.
"So I puts my pack down in the barn, an' steps over to the cookhouse. Louie ain't there. Jest as I'm comin' out o' the place, I hears a cry from the house—a man's voice, loud an' clear. 'Help.' he says. 'Put down that gun. I know your game. Help. Help.' Jest as you said. Well, I ain't lookin' fer no trouble, an' I stands there a minute, uncertain. An' then the cry comes again, almost the same words—but not the man this time. It's Tony, the Chinese parrot, on his perch in the patio, an' from him the words is shrill an' piercin'—more terrible, somehow. An' then I hears a sharp report—the gun is workin'. The racket seems to come from a lighted room in one ell—a window is open. I creeps closer, an' there goes the gun ag'in. There's a sort of groan. It's hit, sure enough. I goes up to the window an' looks in."
He paused. "Then what?" Bob Eden asked breathlessly.
"Well, it's a bedroom, an' he's standin' there with the smokin' gun in his hand, lookin' fierce but frightened like. An' there's somebody on the floor, t'other side o' the bed—all I kin see is his shoes. He turns toward the window, the gun still in his hand—"
"Who?" cried Bob Eden. "Who was it with the gun in his hand? You're talking about Martin Thorn?"
"Thorn? You mean that little sneakin' secretary? No—I ain't speakin' o' Thorn. I'm speakin' o' him—"
"Who?"
"The big boss. Madden. P.J. Madden himself."
There was a moment of tense silence. "Good lord," gasped Eden. "Madden? You mean to say that Madden—Why, it's impossible. How did you know? Are you sure?"
"O' course I'm sure. I know Madden well enough. I seen him three years ago at the ranch. A big man, red-faced, thin gray hair—I couldn't make no mistake about Madden. There he was standin', the gun in his hand, an' he looks toward the window. I ducks back. An' at that minute this Thorn you're speakin' of—he comes tearin' into the
