“Nat! No, mister, that yeller dawg ain’t! Him nor none o’ his tribe—now or no other time! What ye——”
“All right. Good-bye.”
Leaving her open-mouthed, he circuited the house, looking in at every window, finding that she spoke truthfully: neither Sanders nor Oaks was there. She still stood on the steps, gaping after him, when he went back across the opening and disappeared down-hill among the trees.
At the edge of the sandy road below, he paused, undecided what to do next. Had he been in almost any other place and seeking a man, he would have visited other men and asked questions. But here in the tight-mouthed Traps, what was the use? Still, he felt a strong distaste for returning and idling out the dismal day in his dreary abode. Half consciously he turned toward Uncle Eb’s home.
“I’ll go up and smoke a pipe with the old man, anyhow,” he decided aloud.
“Smoke it here if you want,” a voice answered.
The voice came from beside a tree not ten feet away. Startled, he looked into the face of Ward, man-hunter.
“Caught you flat-footed, huh?” Ward went on. “Bill’s behind you, if that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”
True enough, a few feet back from the other side of the path, the morose face of Bill showed beside another tree.
“Well! You fellows are getting good!” Douglas congratulated them. “Regular Indian stuff. You’d have had me cold if you’d wanted me.”