As he lay on his cot of woven willows, he had watched, with narrowed eyelids, his comrades leave the troop room. Now he must report to his chief. The fort was soon behind him. Arriving at Burroughs' store, he passed to the rear and tapped on the small pane of glass doing duty as a window. He tapped again, again; then turned, cursing, to find Burroughs at his elbow.
"What's up?" Burroughs interrupted Joe's blasphemy.
"A party went out from the fort."
"M-m-m! Who was at the fort before you turned in?"
"Nobody."
Joe told him. "Danvers was one," he concluded.
"Always that black-haired Englishman! I hate him!"
"What yeh goin' to do? Ain't them goods comin' this week? Somebody's blabbed. Me-Casto's been watchin' yeh mighty clost, lately. Perhaps it was him."
"Perhaps," concurred the trader, looking at the disloyal trooper thoughtfully. "We kin only hope fer the best. Wild Cat Bill is bringin' it in, an' Scar Faced Charlie is drivin'. 'F they git a chance to cache the stuff they will. Maybe," he concluded hopefully, "the detachment won't run across 'em, an' they'll fool the Police, with their little pill boxes stuck on three hairs."