The group rode slowly away, and when Miguel was through speaking they went in silence. Halfway up the hill, Irish turned in the saddle and stared down at the roof of the little cabin showing black under the moon.
“Well—I’ll—be—darned!” he stated slowly and emphatically, and rode on with the others, who seemed to be thinking deeply.
Their meditations must have been to some purpose, for, after a hasty word or two snatched in private with his fellow conspirators, Irish set the pace.
At the stable he did not wait to unsaddle first of all. Instead he went hurriedly inside, lighted a match, and held it up while he surveyed the wall where the Happy Family were wont to hang their saddles—when they hung them anywhere. Two familiar saddles dangled there, each hanging upon its accustomed peg by its accustomed right stirrup, proclaiming silently and unanswerably the fact of their owners’ presence upon the ranch. When the match flickered and went out, Irish discovered that Cal, Jack Bates, Big Medicine, and Happy Jack were standing behind him, staring also.
“Well—I’ll—be—darned!” said Irish again softly, and dropped the stub with a gesture of keen disappointment.
“It wasn’t them, then,” muttered Big Medicine at his shoulder. “And the—the thing—it played, by cripes!”