But somehow the rumor that the Indians had a mysterious horse and rider got going, and one day Dorgan, who had been to town, came to Angus.
"Say," he said, "do you know a hard-faced bird, near as big as you are but older and heavier, that looks like a bad actor and likes the juice? He seems to be the king-pin of a bunch of young rye-hounds that think they're sports."
"Do you mean Blake French?"
"That's the outfit that owns this Flambeau horse, ain't it?"
"Yes. What about it?"
"Nothin' much. He'd have bought me a lot of friendship sealers if I'd let him. Then there was a feller, name of Garland, that thinks he's a warm member, and claimed he'd seen me ridin' long ago when he was a kid. He might of, at that. They sorter fished around to find out what I was doin' here. But they know, all right. If I was crooked I b'lieve I could do business with them two."
"I've never heard that they would do anything crooked. Of course they might try to find out all they could."
"If I'd taken all the crooked money I've been offered," said Dorgan, "and got away with it, I wouldn't need to be worryin' about apples and chickens now. I know when a feller's feelin' me out, same as I know when a couple of young burglars is holdin' a pocket open for me to ride into."
"But they don't know if Paul Sam's horse can run or not."
"That's their trouble. But if they can fix somebody, they don't need to care."