Johnny was laughing at the humor of the newcomer, and waved from Bill to Quayle. "Tim, this is Bill Long, that we heard about, for I saw him clean out Fisher. Long, this is Quayle, an' my name's Nelson. Cuss it, man! I'd say you was gettin' acquainted fast. What was that you was sayin' about th' white man an' th' Mexicans, an' some mistake? It was sort of riled up."
"It is riled up," chuckled Bill, crossing his legs. "I gave it out just like I got it. As I says to Fisher last night, I'm a imitator. Any news about th' robbery?"
Quayle snorted. "Fine chance! An' d'ye think they'd be after tellin' on thimselves? That's th' only way for any news to be heard."
"I may be a stranger," replied Bill; "but I'm no stranger to human nature, which is about th' same in one place as it is in another. If that reward don't pan out some news, then I'm loco."
Quayle listened to a call from the kitchen. "It's th' only chance, then," he flung over his shoulder as he left them. "It's that darned Mick. I'll be back soon."
Johnny, with a glance at the barroom door, leaned slightly forward and whispered one word, his eyes moist: "Hoppy!"
Bill Long squirmed and grinned. "You flat-headed sage-hen!" he breathed. "I want to see you in secret."
Johnny nodded. "I reckon th' reward might start somethin' out in th' open, but I wouldn't want to be th' man that tried for it." His voice dropped to a whisper. "We'll take a ride this afternoon from Kane's, plain an' open." In his natural voice he continued. "But, Twitchell an' Carpenter are shore powerful. An' they've got th' men an' th' money."
"Do you reckon anybody had a personal grudge?" asked Bill. "I'll fix it."
"I'm near as much a stranger here as you are," answered Johnny, "though I sold Ridley some cattle. I met him before, on th' range around Gunsight. Nice feller, he was. What time?"
"He must 'a' been a good man, to work for th' T & C," replied Bill. "After dinner."
"He was."
"Oh, well; it ain't my funeral. Feel like a little game?"
"I used to think I could play poker," chuckled Johnny; "but I woke up last night. Seein' as how I still got them yearlin's to buy, I don't feel like playin'."
Quayle's voice boomed out suddenly from the kitchen. "If yer fingers was feet ye'd be as good! Hould it, now—if ut slips this time I'll be after bustin' yer head. I've showed ye a dozen times how to put it back, an' still ye yell fer me. There, now—hould it! Hand me th' wire—annybody'd think—blast th' blasted man that made ut! Some Dootchman, I'll wager."
"Shure an' we ought to get a new wan—it's warped crooked, an' cracked—"
"We should, should we?" roared the proprietor. "An' who are 'we'? Only tin years old, an' it's a new wan we'd be gettin', is ut? What we ought to be gettin' is a new cook, an' wan that's not cracked. Now, th' nixt time ye poke ut, poke gintly—ye ain't makin' post holes with that poker. An' now look at me—"A door slammed and a washbasin sounded like tin.
Ed Doane's laugh sounded from the barroom and he appeared in the doorway, where he grinned. "I hear it; frequent, but it's allus funny. Sometimes they near come to blows."
"Stove?" queried Bill.
"Shore—th' grate's buckled out of shape, an' it's a little short. Murphy gets mad at th' fire an' prods it good—an' then th' show starts all over again. It's funnier than th' devil when th' old man gets a blister from it, for he talks so that nobody but Murphy can understand one word in ten. Easy! Here he comes."
"Buy a new wan, is ut?" muttered the proprietor, his red face bearing a diagonal streak of soot. "Shure—for him to spile, like he spiled this wan. Ah, byes, I'm tellin' ye th' hotel business ain't what it used to be."
"Yore face looks funny," said Ed.
Quayle turned on him. "Oh, it does, does ut? Well, if my face don't suit ye—now would ye look at that?" he demanded as he caught sight of his reflection in the dingy mirror over the desk. "But it ain't so bad, at that; th' black's above th' red!"
"Hey, Tim!" came from the kitchen. "Thought ye said ye fixed ut? Ut's down agin!"
"I—I—I!" sputtered Quayle wildly. He spread the soot over his face with a despairing sweep of his sleeve, leaped into the air and started on a lumbering run for the kitchen. "You—I—blast it!" he yelled, and the kitchen resounded to his bellowing demands for the cook.
Ed Doane wiped his eyes, looked around—and shouted, his out-thrust hand pointing to a window, where a red face peered into the room.
"Shure," said the cook, apologetically, "he's the divvil himself. If I stay here wan more day me name ain't Murphy. Will wan av yez, that ain't go no interest in th' cussed stove, tell that Mick to buy a new grate? An' would ye listen to him, now?"
When he was able to Bill arose. "Well, I reckon I'll go up an' look in at Kane's. If I run this way, don't stop me."
Sauntering up the street he came to the south side of the gambling-hall and went along it, and when a certain number of paces beyond the fifth high window, the sill of which was above his head, he stumbled and fell. Swearing under his breath he picked up a Colt which had slipped from its holster and, arising to hands and knees, looked around and then stood up. He could see under the entire building except at the point where he had fallen, and there he saw that under Kane's private room the walls went down into the earth. When he reached the stables he entered the one which sheltered his horse, closed the door behind him and made a hasty examination of the building, but found nothing which made him suspect a secret exit. He came to the opinion that the boards went down to the earth below Kane's quarters for the purpose of not allowing anyone to crawl under his rooms. In a few minutes he led his horse outside, mounted and rode around to the front of the gambling-hall, where he dismounted and went in for a drink, scowling slightly at the vigilant and militant Mr. Thorpe, who returned the look with interest.
"Got a cayuse?" he asked the bartender.
The other shook his head. "No, why?"
"Thought mebby you'd like to ride along with me. That one of mine will be better for a little exercise. What's east of here?"
"Sand hills, dried lakes, an' th' desert."
"Then I'll go west," grinned Bill. "But mebby it's th' same?"
"It ain't bad over that way; but why don't you ride south? There's real good country down in them valleys."
"Ain't that where th' T & C is?"
The bartender nodded.
"West is good enough for me. Better get a cayuse an' come along."
"Can't do it, an' I ain't set a saddle in two years. I'd be a cripple if I stuck to you. Why don't you hunt up that Nelson feller? He ain't got nothin' to do."
"Just left him. Don't reckon he'd care to go. Huh!" he muttered, looking at the clock. "I reckon I'll eat first, an' ride after."
Shortly after dinner Johnny strolled in and nodded to the bartender, who immediately called to Bill Long.
"Here's Nelson now; mebby he'll go with you," he said.
"Go where?" asked Johnny, pausing.
"Ridin'."