The talk went on among the men, but Westcott was not there to hear it. He had seen to it that he should not be, and was well on his way back to town.
He had not put the idea into their heads, he told himself. Nor was it likely that anything would come of their drunken vaporings.
But if anything should—His heart was beating excitedly, and his breath came quick as the possibilities of the situation hammered at his brain.
“Curse the fellow,” he muttered. “The very devil himself is always sending him my way. Well, whatever happens to him this trip he’s brought it upon himself.”
He walked on, his thoughts growing more definite.
“Nothing can be proved against me,” they ran. “I can’t be supposed to know what a lot of drunken punchers are likely to do. The fool ought to have been careful how he interfered with them.
“Still, if anything should happen,” caution suggested, “I may as well be away from here.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Too late for the afternoon train,” he reflected. “But there’s the mixed freight at nine-thirty. I might ride over to the junction and get Billy Norton to stop that for me. I’ll do that. Plenty of time after supper. Yes: that is what I will do.”
He did not continue his walk, but sought the little hotel and shut himself into his room, explaining to the friendly proprietor that he was dead tired, and wanted to make up lost sleep.