“Nope—nothin’ you’d want,” was the hasty cover-up. “I ain’t woikin’ in the big town now—this is a little up-river stuff. Me and my pal’s jest lookin’ round for some small-fry. Don’t let us keep ya. So long.”
Douglas laughed openly. The burly man now was even more anxious to be rid of him than he was to go to the barn.
“Oh, all right. Let’s see, who did you say you were? And from where?”
“Didn’t say. So long, fella. So long.”
He turned his back squarely on his questioner. The other man, who had been searchingly watching Douglas, now directed his gaze elsewhere and also turned an aloof shoulder to him. Douglas shot a wink at Uncle Eb and strolled out.
“G’by, son,” called the old man. “Don’t forgit the hoss.”
“Oh, sure. I’ll fix him up. See you later.”
With lazy step he sauntered up to the little yellow barn, whose sliding door stood open a few inches. Once inside, he dropped his languid air in a flash.
“Steve!” he called softly, peering around. “Steve!”
No answer came. In a dark stall a horse moved and stamped. Somewhere down below sounded the grunts of hogs which had heard his steps. But of human movement, of human voice, there was no sign.