"So I hope they're starting in the right direction," grinned Bradley, vice president of the bank and proprietor of the town's principal store. "I've been wondering if the Meadowlark was going to tuck its head under its wing, with all the talk going round about it. I overheard one of Palmer's men saying in the store that the bank has put a detective on Bud Larkin's trail. I wonder where he got that idea?" Bradley sat down and thrust out his long legs before him in the attitude of one who has the habit of taking his ease whenever possible. He knew the boys well. He could have told you exactly how much each man there had paid for the shirt he had on—though what his own profit had been would have been carefully guarded as a dark secret. Every mouthful of food that went down the throat of a Meadowlark man when at home came from Bradley's store unless it had been produced on the ranch.
The other two men were also important business men of the town; one owned the hardware store and the other a small, fly-specked drugstore stocked mostly with patent nostrums. The boys could not have chosen four men more to their liking for this particular conference.
"Well, here's what we aim to do." Tony began rolling a cigarette as an aid to eloquence, and stated the plan.
The audience grunted and looked doubtful; then Delkin gave a short laugh.
"I admit it's original," he said dryly. "And it's lucky you told us beforehand, or you boys might find yourselves swinging from a limb somewhere before you could convince any one you were only joking."
"Only danger," Bradley agreed, "is making too big a success of it. We've been watching Palmer and his men pretty close, and I must say we haven't a thing to go on, except that Palmer was the last man in the bank before Charlie was killed, and Bat Johnson was the first man seen near the bank afterwards. On the other hand, Bud and that young stranger—"
"Say, Bud's name don't sound purty to me, used that way; and that stranger's wearin' the Meddalark brand, Mr. Bradley," Tony interrupted meaningly. "Well, we're dry, and thank Gawd our duty calls us to git pickled or nearly so. And here," he added, glancing through the window, "comes the he-one of 'em all. Palmer's follered us in. Come awn, boys. Let's go git near-drunk. And, oh, say!" he added, reaching into his pocket, "here's the evidence agin us! Lark went and borried some money in Glasgow—I guess he told yuh himself—and us boys is plumb lousy with gold tens and twenties. So don't git nervous and think we're spendin' the bank's good money in righteous livin'. We worked fer this. Every dime was earnt in sweat and sorrow. Ain't that right, boys?"
"Damn' right that's right," they agreed solemnly.
"I'll tackle Bat," Tony announced, as they walked across the street to the Elkhorn, thumbs hooked inside their belts, hats atilt, eyes seeing everything. "Lordy, how this town's growed since I seen it last! There's a new dog, layin' right on Bradley's steps. Wouldn't that jar yuh some, hunh?"
"Who's goin' to tackle Palmer?" Bob Leverett wanted to know. "Me, I wouldn't come within ropin' distance of that old coyote. Rosy, you take 'im."