Navajo, Pima, and Hopi enjoy seven cardinal points--north, east,
west, south, up, down, and right here. In these and any intermediate
directions from the Vorhis Ranch the diligent posse comitatus made
swift and jealous search through the slow hours of afternoon. It
commandeered the V H Saddle horses in the corral; it searched for sign
in the soft earth of the wandering draws between the dozen low hills
scattered round Big Thumb Butte and Little Thumb Butte; it rode
circles round the ranch; the sign of Christopher Foy's shod horse was
found and followed hotfoot by a detachment. Eight men had arrived in
the first bunch, with the sheriff; others from every angle joined
by twos and threes from hour to hour till the number rose to above
a score. A hasty election provided a protesting cook and a horse
wrangler; a V H beef was slaughtered.
The posse was rather equally divided between two classes--simpletons
and fools. The first unquestionably believed Foy to be a base and
cowardly murderer, out of law, whom it were most righteous to harry;
else, as the storied juryman put it, "How came he there?" The other
party were of those who hold that evildoing may permanently prosper
and endure.
In the big living room of the adobe ranch house much time had been
wasted in cross-questions and foolish answers. Stella Vorhis had been
banished to her own room and Sheriff Matt Lisner had privately told
off a man to make sure she did not escape.
Lisner and Ben Creagan, crossest of the four examiners, had been
prepared to meet by crushing denial an eager and indignant statement
from Pringle, adducing the Gadsden House affair and his subsequent
companying with Foy as proof positive of Foy's innocence. That no
such accusation came from Pringle set these able but mystified deniers
entirely at a loss, left the denial high and dry. Creagan mopped his
brow furtively.
"Vorhis," said Sheriff Matt, red and angry from an hour's endeavor, "I
think you're telling a pack of lies--every word of it. You know mighty
well where Foy is."
The Major's gray goatee quivered.
"Guess I'll tell you lies if I want to," he retorted defiantly.
"But, Sheriff, he may be telling us the truth," urged Paul Breslin.
"Foy may very well have ridden here alone before Vorhis got here. I've
known the Major a long time. He isn't the man to protect a red-handed
murderer."
"Aw, bah! How do you know I won't? How do you know he's a murderer?
You make me sick!" declared the Major hotly. Breslin was an honest,
well-meaning farmer; the Major was furious to find such a man allied
with Foy's foes--certain sign that other decent blockheads would do
likewise. "Matt Lisner tells you Kit Foy is a murderer and you believe
him implicitly: Matt Lisner tells you I'm a liar--but you stumble at
that. Why? Because you think about me--that's why! Why don't you try
that plan about Foy--thinking?"
"But Foy's run away," stammered Breslin, disconcerted.
"Run away, hell! He's not here, you mean. According to your precious
story, Foy was leaving before Marr was killed--or before you say Marr
was killed. Why don't you look for him with the Bar Cross round-up?
There's where he started for, you say?"
"I wired up and had a trusty man go out there quietly at once. He's
staying there still--quietly," said the sheriff. "Foy isn't there--and
the Bar Cross hasn't heard of the killing yet. It won't do, Major.
Foy's run away."
John Wesley Pringle, limp, slack, and rumpled in his chair, yawned,
stretching his arms wide.
"This man Foy," he ventured amiably, "if he really run away, he done a
wise little stunt for himself, I think. Because every little ever and
anon, thin scraps of talk float in from your cookfire in the yard--and
there's a heap of it about ropes and lynching, for instance. If he
hasn't run away yet, he'd better--and I'll tell him so if I see him.
Stubby, red-faced, spindlin', thickset, jolly little man, ain't he?
Heavy-complected, broad-shouldered, dark blond, very tall and
slender, weighs about a hundred and ninety, with a pale skin and a
hollow-cheeked, plump, serious face?"
At this ill-timed and unthinkable levity Breslin stared in
bewilderment; Lisner glared, gripping his fist convulsively; and Mr.
Ben Creagan, an uneasy third inquisitor, breathed hard through his
nose. Anastacio Barela, the fourth and last inquisitor, maintained
unmoved the disinterested attitude he had held since the interrogation
began. Feet crossed, he lounged in his chair, graceful, silent,
smoking, listening, idly observant of wall and ceiling.
No answer being forthcoming to his query Pringle launched another:
"Speaking of faces, Creagan, old sport, what's happened to you and
your nose? You look like someone had spread you on the minutes." He
eyed Creagan with solicitous interest.
Mr. Creagan's battered face betrayed emotion. Pringle's shameless
mendacity shocked him. But it was Creagan's sorry plight that he must
affect never to have seen this insolent Pringle before. The sheriff's
face mottled with wrath. Pringle reflected swiftly: The sheriff's rage
hinted strongly that he was in Creagan's confidence and hence was no
stranger to last night's mishap at the hotel; their silence proclaimed
their treacherous intent.
On the other hand, these two, if not the others, knew very well that
Pringle had left town with Foy and had probably stayed with him; that
the Major must know all that Foy and Pringle knew. Evidently, Pringle
decided, these two, at least, could expect no direct information from
their persistent questionings; what they hoped for was unconscious
betrayal by some slip of the tongue. As for young Breslin, Pringle
had long since sized him up for what the Major knew him to be--a
good-hearted, right-meaning simpleton. In the indifferent-seeming
Anastacio, Pringle recognized an unknown quantity.
That, for a certainty, Christopher Foy had not killed Marr, was a
positive bit of knowledge which Pringle shared only with the murderer
himself and with that murderer's accomplices, if any. So much was
plain, and Pringle felt a curiosity, perhaps pardonable, as to who the
murderer really was.
Duty and inclination thus happily wedded, Pringle set himself to goad
ferret-eyed Creagan and the heavy-jawed sheriff into unwise speech.
And inattentive Anastacio had a shrewd surmise at Pringle's design.
He knew nothing of the fight at the Gadsden House, but he sensed an
unexplained tension--and he knew his chief.
"And this man, too--what about him?" said Breslin, regarding Pringle
with a puzzled face. "Granted that the Major might have a motive for
shielding Foy--he may even believe Foy to be innocent--why should this
stranger put himself in danger for Foy?"
"Here, now--none of that!" said Pringle with some asperity. "I may
be a stranger to you, but I'm an old friend of the Major's. I'm his
guest, eating his grub and drinking his baccy; if he sees fit to tell
any lies I back him up, of course. Haven't you got any principle at
all? What do you think I am?"
"I know what you are," said the sheriff. "You're a damned liar!"
"An amateur only," said Pringle modestly. "I never take money for it."
He put by a wisp of his frosted hair, the better to scrutinize, with
insulting slowness, the sheriff's savage face. "Your ears are very
large!" he murmured at last. "And red!"
The sheriff leaped up.
"You insolent cur-dog!" he roared.
"To stand and be still to the Birken'ead drill is a dam' tough bullet
to chew,'" quoted Pringle evenly. "But he done it--old Pringle--John
Wesley Pringle--liar and cur-dog too! We'll discuss the cur-dog later.
Now, about the liar. You're mighty certain, seems to me. Why? How do
you know I'm lying? For I am lying--I'll not deceive you. I'm lying;
you know I'm lying; I know that you know I'm lying: and you apprehend
clearly that I am aware that you are cognizant of the fact that I am
fully assured that you know I am lying. Just like that! What a very
peculiar set of happenstances! I am a nervous woman and this makes my
head go round!"
"The worst day's work you ever did for yourself," said the angry
sheriff, "was when you butted into this business."
"Yes, yes; go on. Was this to-day or yesterday--at the hotel?"
"Liar!" roared Lisner. "You never were at the Gadsden House."
"Who said I was?"
The words cracked like a whiplash. Simultaneously Pringle's tilted
chair came down to its four legs and Pringle sat poised, his weight on
the balls of his feet, ready for a spring. The sheriff paused midway
of a step; his mottled face grew ashen. A gurgle very like a smothered
chuckle came from Anastacio. Creagan flung himself into the breach.
"Aw, Matt, let's have the girl in here. We can't get nothing from
these stiff-necked idiots."
"Might as well," agreed Lisner in a tone that tried to be contemptuous
but trembled. "We're wasting time here."
"Lisner," said the Major in his gentlest tone, "be well advised and
leave my daughter be."
"And if I don't?" sneered Lisner. He had no real desire to question
Stella, but welcomed the change of venue as a diversion from his late
indiscretion. "If, in the performance of my duty, I put a few
civil questions to Miss Vorhis--in the presence of her father, mind
you--then what?"
"But you won't!" said the Major softly.
"Do you know, Sheriff, I think the Major has the right idea?" said
Pringle. "We won't bother the young lady."
"Who's going to stop me?"
Anastacio, in his turn, brought his chair to the floor, at the same
time unclasping his hands from behind his head.
"I'll do that little thing, Sheriff," he announced mildly. "Miss
Vorhis has already told us that she has not seen Foy since yesterday
noon. That is quite sufficient."
Silence.
"This makes me fidgety. Somebody say something, quick--anything!"
begged Pringle. "All right, then; I will. Let's go back--we've dropped
a stitch. That goes about me being a liar and a damned one, Sheriff;
but I'm hurt to have you think I'm a cur-dog. You're the sheriff,
doin' your duty, as you so aptly observed. And you've done took my gun
away. But if bein' a cur-dog should happen to vex me--honest, Sheriff,
I'm that sensitive that I'll tell you now--not hissing or gritting or
gnashing my teeth--just telling you--the first time I meet you in a
strictly private and unofficial way I'm goin' to remold you closer to
my heart's desire!"
"You brazen hussy! You know you lied!"
"You're still harpin' on that, Sheriff? That doesn't make it any
easier to be a cur-dog. How did you know I lied? You say so,
mighty positive--but what are your reasons? Why don't you tell your
associates? There is an honest man in this room. I am not sure there
are not two--"
Anastacio's eyes again removed themselves from the ceiling.
"If you mean me--and somehow I am quite clear as to that--"
"I mean Mr. Breslin."
"Oh, him--of course!" said Anastacio in a shocked voice. "Breslin, by
all means, for the one you were sure of. But the second man, the
one you had hopes of--who should that be but me? I thank you. I am
touched. I am myself indifferent honest, as Shakespere puts it."
The sheriff licked his dry lips.
"If you think I am going to stay here to be insulted--"
"You are!" taunted John Wesley Pringle. "You'll stay right here. What?
Leave me here to tell what I have to say to an honest man and a half?
Impossible! You'll not let me out of your sight."
"My amateur Ananias," interrupted Anastacio dispassionately, "you are,
unintentionally, perhaps, doing me half of a grave injustice. In this
particular instance--for this day and date only--I am as pure as a
new-mown hay. To prevent all misapprehension let me say now that I
never thought Foy killed Dick Marr."
"In heaven's name, why?" demanded Breslin.
"My honest but thick-skulled friend, let me put in my oar," implored
the Major. "Let me show you that Matt Lisner never thought Foy was
guilty. Foy said last night, before the killing, that he was coming up
here, didn't he?"
"Hey, Major--hold up!" cried Pringle. But Vorhis was not to be
stopped.
"Don't you see, you doddering imbecile? If Foy had really killed
Dick Marr he might have gone to any other place in the world--but he
wouldn't have come here."
"Aha! So Foy did come here, hey?" croaked the sheriff, triumphant
in his turn. "Thanks, Major, for the information, though I was sure
before, humanly speaking, that he came this way."
"Which is another way of saying that you don't think Foy did the
killing--that you don't even suspect him of it," said Anastacio. as
the Major subsided, crestfallen. "Matt Lisner, I know that you hate
Foy. I know that you welcome this chance to get rid of him. Make no
mistake, Breslin. I was not wanted here. I wasn't asked and none of my
people were brought along. I tagged along, though--to wait. It's one
of the best little things I do--waiting. And I came to protect Foy,
not to capture him. I came to keep right at his side, in case he
surrendered without a fight--for fear he might be killed ... escaping
... on the way back. It's a way that we have in Las Uvas!"
Lisner threw a look of hate at his deputy.
"You don't mean to tell me there's any danger of anything like that?"
said Breslin, staggered and aghast.
"Every danger. That's an old gag--the _ley fuga_."
"You lie!" bawled Creagan. His six-shooter covered Anastacio.
"That'll keep. Put up your gun, Bennie," said Anastacio with great
composure. "Supper's most ready. Besides, the Barelas won't like it
if you shoot me this way. There's a lot of the Barelas, Ben. I'll tell
you what I'll do, though--I'll slip the idea to my crowd, and any time
you want to kill me on an even break, no Barela or Ascarate will take
it up. Put it right in your little holster--put it up, I say! That's
right. You see, Breslin? Don't let Foy out of your sight if he should
be taken."
"But he'll never let himself be taken alive," said Vorhis. "Even
if anyone wants to take him--alive. Pass the word to your friends,
Breslin, unless you want them to take part in a deliberate,
foreplanned murder."
"Damn you, what do you mean?" shouted the sheriff.
"By God, sir, I mean just what I say!"
"Why, girls!" said Pringle. "You shock me! This is most unladylike.
This is scandalous talk. Be nice! Please--pretty please! See, here
comes some more pussy-foot posse--three, six, eleven hungry men. Have
they got Foy? No; they have not got Foy. Is he up? He is up. Look
who's here too! Good old Applegate and Brother Espalin. I wonder now
if they're goin' to give me the cut direct, like Creagan did? You
notice, Mr. Breslin."
The horsemen rode into the corral.
"No; don't go, Sheriff," said Anastacio.
"I'm anxious to see if those two will recognize Ananias the Amateur.
They'll be here directly. You, either, Creagan. Else I'll shoot you
both in the back, accidentally, cleaning my gun."
From without was the sound of spurred feet in haste; three men
appeared at the open door.
"Why, if it ain't George! Good old George!" cried Pringle, rising
with outstretched arms. "And my dear friend Espalin! What a charming
reunion!"
Applegate's eyes threw a startled question at his chief and at
Creagan; Espalin slipped swiftly back through the door.
"I don't know you, sir," said Applegate.
"George! You're never going to disown me! Joe's gone, too. Nobody
loves me!"
The third man, a grizzled and bristly old warrior with a limp, broke
in with a roar.
"What in hell's going on here?" he stormed.
"You are, for one thing, if you don't moderate your voice," said
Anastacio. "Nueces, you bellow like the bulls of Bashan. Mr.
Applegate, meet Mr. Pringle."
"What does he mean, then, by such monkeyshines?" demanded the
other--old Nueces River, chief of police, ex-ranger, and, for this
occasion, deputy sheriff. "I got no time for foolishness. And you
can't run no whizzer on me, Barela. Don't you try it!"
"Oh, they're just joking, Nueces," said the Major. "Tell us how about
it. Here, I'll light the lamp; it's getting dark. Find any sign of
Foy?"
Nueces leveled a belligerent finger at the Major.
"You've been joking, too! I've heard about you. Lisner, I'm ashamed of
you! Let Vorhis pull the wool over your eyes, while you sit here and
jaw all afternoon, doing nothing!"
"Why, what did you find out?"
"A-plenty. Them stiffs you sent out found Foy's horse, to begin with."
"Sure it was Foy's horse?" queried Lisner eagerly.
"Sure! I know the horse--that big calico horse of his."
"Why didn't you follow him up?"
"Follow hell! Oh, some of the silly fools are milling round out
there--going over to the San Andres to-night to take a big hunt
mañana. Not me. That horse was a blind. They pottered round tryin' to
find some trace of Foy--blind fools!--till I met up with 'em. I'd done
gathered in that mizzable red-headed Joe Cowan on a give-out horse,
claim-in' he'd been chousin' after broom-tails. He'd planted Foy's
horse, I reckon. But it can't be proved, so I let him go. He'll have
to walk in; that's one good thing."
"But Foy--where do you figure Foy's gone?"
"Maybe he simply was not," suggested Pringle, "like Enoch when he was
translated into all European languages, including the Scandinavian."
"Pringle, if you say another word I'll have you gagged!" said the
exasperated sheriff. "Don't you reckon, Nueces, that Cowan brought Foy
a barefooted horse? He can't have gone on afoot or you'd have seen his
tracks."
"Sheriff, you certainly are an easy mark!" returned Nueces, in great
disgust. "Foy didn't go on afoot or horseback, because he was never
there. I've told you twice: Cowan left that calico horse on purpose
for us to find. Vorhis is Foy's friend. Can't you see, if Foy had
tried to get away by hard riding he would have had a fresh horse, not
the one he rode from Las Uvas, and you wouldn't have found a penful of
fresh horses to chase him with? Not in a thousand years! That was to
make it nice and easy for you to ride on--a six-year-old kid could see
through it! It's a wonder you didn't all fall for it and chase away.
No, sir! Foy either stopped down on the river and sent his horse on to
fool us--or, more likely, he's up in the Buttes. Did you look there?"
"I sent the boys round to out sign. I didn't feel justified in hunting
out the rough places till we had more men. Too much cover for him."
"And none for you, I s'pose? Mamma! but you're a fine sheriff! Look
now: After we started back here we sighted a dust comin' 'way up
north. We went over, and 'twas Hargis, the Major's buckaroo, throwin'
in a bunch from the round-up. He didn't know nothin' and was not right
sure of that--till I mentioned your reward. Soon as ever I mentioned
twenty-five hundred, he loosened up right smart."
"Well? Did he know where Foy was?"
"No; but he knew of the place where I judge Foy is, this very yet.
Gosh!" said Nueces River in deep disgust, "it beats hell what men will
do for a little dirty money! Seems there's a cave near the top of the
least of them two buttes--the roughest one--a cave with two mouths,
one right on the big top. Nobody much knows where it is, only the V H
outfit."
Pringle had edged across the room. He now plucked at Bell Applegate's
sleeve.
"Say, is that right about that reward--twenty-five hundred?" he
whispered. His eyes glistened.
"Forty-five," said Bell behind his hand. "The Masons, they put up a
thousand, and Dick's old uncle--that would have let Dick starve or
work--he tacked on a thousand more. Dead or alive!" He looked down
at Pringle's face, at Pringle's working fingers, opening and shutting
avariciously; he sneered. "Don't you wish you may get it? S-sh! Hear
what the old man's saying."
During the whispered colloquy the old ranger had kept on:
"There's where he is, a twenty-to-one shot! He'll lay quiet, likely,
thinkin' we'll miss him. Brush growin' over both the cave mouths,
Hargis says, so you might pass right by if you didn't know where to
look. These short nights he couldn't never get clear on foot. Thirty
mile to the next water--we'd find his tracks and catch him. But he
might make a break to get away, at that. Never can tell about a he-man
like that. We can't take no chances. We'll pick a bite of supper and
then we surround that hill, quiet as mice, and close up on him. He
can't see us to shoot if we're fool enough to make any noise. Come
daylight, we'll have him cornered, every man behind a bowlder. If he
shows up he's our meat; if he don't we'll starve him out."
"And suppose he isn't there?" said Creagan. "What would we look like,
watching an empty cave two or three days?"
"What do we look like now? Give you three guesses," retorted Nueces.
"And how'd we look rushin' that empty cave if it didn't happen to be
empty? Excuse me! I'd druther get three grand heehaws and a tiger
for bein' ridiculous than to have folks tiptoe by a-whisperin': 'How
natural he looks!' I been a pretty tough old bird in my day--but goin'
up a tunnel after Kitty Foy ain't my idea of foresight."
"Some man--some good man, too--will have to stay here and stand
guard on the Major and this fresh guy, Pringle," said the sheriff
thoughtfully. "He'll get his slice of the money, of course."
"You'll find a many glad to take that end of the job; for," said
Nueces River, "it is in my wise old noddle some of us are going to be
festerin' in Abraham's bosom before we earn that reward money. Leave
Applegate--he's in bad shape for climbing anyway; bruise on his belly
big as a washpan."
"Bronc' bucked me over on the saddle horn," explained Applegate.
"Sure, I'll stay. And the Pringle person will be right here when you
get back, too."
"Let the Major take some supper in to Miss Vorhis," suggested Breslin.
"I'll keep an eye on him. He can eat with her and cheer her up a
little. This is hard lines for a girl."
Lisner shrugged his shoulders.
"We have to keep her here till Foy's caught. She might bring a sight
of trouble down on us."
"Say, what's the matter with me going out and eating a few?" asked
Pringle.
"You stay here! You talk too much with your mouth," replied the
sheriff. "I'll send in a snack for you and Bell. Come on, boys."
They filed out to the cook's fire in the walled courtyard.
"George, dear," said Pringle when the two were left alone, "is that
right about the reward? 'Cause I sure want to get in on it."
"Damn likely. You knew where Foy was. You know where he is now. Why
didn't you tell us, if you wanted in on the reward?"
"Why, George, I didn't know there was any reward. Besides, him and me
split up as soon as we got clear of town."
"You're a damn liar!"
"That's what the sheriff said. Somebody must 'a' give me away,"
complained John Wesley. He rolled a cigarette and walked to the table.
"All the same, you're making a mistake. You hadn't ought to roil me.
Just for that, soon as they're all off on their man hunt, I'm goin' to
study up some scheme to get away."
"I got a picture of you gettin' away!"
"George," said John Wesley, "you see that front door? Well, that's
what we call in theatrical circles a practical door. Along toward
morning I'm going out through that practical door. You'll see!"
He raised the lamp, held the cigarette over the chimney top and puffed
till he got a light; so doing he smoked the chimney. To inspect the
damage he raised the lamp higher. Swifter than thought he hurled it at
his warder's head. The blazing lamp struck Applegate between the eyes.
Pringle's fist flashed up and smote him grievously under the jaw;
he fell crashing; the half-drawn gun clattered from his slackened
fingers. Pringle caught it up and plunged into the dark through the
practical door.
He ran down the adobe wall of the water pen; a bullet whizzed by; he
turned the corner; he whisked over the wall, back into the water pen.
Shouts, curses, the sound of rushing feet without the wall. Pringle
crouched in the deep shadow of the wall, groped his way to the long
row of watering troughs, and wormed himself under the upper trough,
where the creaking windmill and the splashing of water from the supply
pipe would drown out the sound of his labored breath.
Horsemen boiled from the yard gate with uproar and hullabaloo; Pringle
heard their shouts; he saw the glare of soap weeds, fired to help
their search.
The lights died away; the shouts grew fainter: they swelled again as
the searchers straggled back, vociferous. Pringle caught scraps of
talk as they watered their horses.
"Clean getaway!"
"One bad actor, that _hombre_!"
"Regular Go-Getter!"
"Batting average about thirteen hundred, I should figger."
"Life-size he-man! Where do you suppose----"
"Saw a lad make just such another break once in Van Zandt County----"
"Say! Who're you crowdin'?"
"Hi, fellers! Bill's giving some more history of the state of Van
Zandt!"
"Applegate's pretty bad hurt."
"----in a gopher hole and near broke my fool neck."
"Where'd this old geezer come from, anyway? Never heard of him
before!"
"'Tain't fair, just when we was all crowdin' up for supper! He might
have waited."
"This will be merry hell and repeat if he hooks up with Foy," said
Creagan's voice, adding a vivid description of Pringle.
Old Nueces answered, raising his voice:
"He's afoot. We got to beat him to it. Let's ride!"
"That's right," said the sheriff. "But we'll grab something to
eat first. Saddle up, Hargis, and lead us to your little old cave.
Robbins, while we snatch a bite you bunch what canteens we've got and
fill 'em up. Then you watch the old man and that girl, and let Breslin
come with us. You can eat after we've gone."
"Don't let the girl heave a pillow at you, Robbins!" warned a voice.
"Better not stop to eat," urged Nueces.
"We can lope up and get to the foot of Thumb Butte before Pringle gets
halfway--if he's going there at all. Most likely he's had a hand in
the Marr killing and is just running away to save his own precious
neck," said the sheriff. "We'll scatter out around the hill when we
get to the roughs, and go up afoot till every man can see or hear
his neighbor, so Pringle can't get through. Then we'll wait till
daylight."
"That may suit you," retorted Nueces. "Me, I don't intend for any
man that will buck a gun with a lamp to throw in with Kit Foy while I
stuff my paunch. That sort is just the build to do a mile in nothing
flat--and it's only three miles to the hill. I'm goin' now, and
I'm goin' hellity-larrup! Come on, anybody with more brains than
belly--I'm off to light a line of soap weeds on that hill so this Mr.
Pringle-With-the-Punch don't walk himself by. If he wants up he'll
have to hoof it around the other side of the hill. We won't make
any light on the north side. That Bar Cross outfit is too damn
inquisitive. The night herders would see it; they'd smell trouble;
and like as not the whole bilin' of 'em would come pryin' down here
by daylight. Guess they haven't heard about Foy or they'd be here now.
They're strong for Foy. Come on, you waddies!"
Mr. Pringle-With-the-Punch, squeezed, cramped, and muddy under the
trough, heard this supperless plan with displeasure; his hope had been
otherwise. He heard the sound of hurried mounting; from the thunder
of galloping hoofs it would seem that a goodly number of the posse had
come up to the specifications laid down by the old ranger.
The others clanked away, leaving their horses standing. The man
Robbins grumbled from saddle to saddle and gathered canteens. As he
filled them from the supply pipe directly above Mr. Pringle's head, he
set them on the ground within easy reach of Mr. Pringle's hand.
Acting on this hint Mr. Pringle's hand withdrew a canteen, quite
unostentatiously. An unnecessary precaution, as it turned out; Mr.
Robbins, having filled that batch, went to the horses farther down the
troughs to look for more canteens. So Pringle wriggled out with his
canteen, selected a horse, and rode quietly through the open gate.
"Going already?" called Robbins as he passed.
Secure under cover of darkness, Pringle answered in the voice of one
who, riding, eats:
"Yes, indeedy; I ain't no hawg. Wasn't much hungry nohow!"