Annie-Many-Ponies had ways of her own. She did not tell Ramon that she doubted his word, nor did she refuse to deliver the message. She waited calmly until Bill Holmes left camp stealthily that night, and she followed him. It was perfectly simple and sensible and the right thing to do; if you wanted to know for sure whether a person lied to you, you had but to watch and listen and let your own eyes and ears prove guilt or innocence.
So Annie-Many-Ponies stood by the rock and listened and watched. She did not see any silver bridle. She heard many words, but the two were speaking in that strange Spanish talk which she did not know at all, save “Querida mia,” which Ramon had told her meant sweetheart.
The two talked, low-voiced and earnest, Bill was telling all that he knew of Luck Lindsay's plans—and that was not much.
“He don't talk,” Bill complained. “He just tells the bunch a day ahead—just far enough to get their makeup and costumes on, generally. But he won't stay around here much longer; he's taken enough spring roundup stuff now for half a dozen pictures. He'll be moving in to the ranch again pretty quick. And I know this picture calls for a lot of town business that he'll have to take. I saw the script the other day.” This, of course, being a free translation of the meaningless jumble of strange words which Annie heard.
“What town business is that? Where will he work?” Ramon was plainly impatient of so much vagueness.
“Well, there's a bank robbery—I paid particular attention, Ramon, so I know for certain. But when he'll do it, or what bank he'll use, I don't know any more than you do. And there's a running fight down the street and through the Mexican quarter. The rest is just street stuff—that and a fiesta that I think he'll probably me the old plaza for location. He'll need a lot of Mexicans for that stuff. He'll want you, of course.”
“That bank—who will do that?” Ramon's fingers trembled so that he could scarcely roll a cigarette. “Andy, perhaps?”
“No—that's the Mexican bunch. I—why, I guess that will maybe be you, Ramon. I wasn't paying much attention to the parts—I was after locations, and I only had about two minutes at the script. But he's been giving you some good bits right along where he needed a Mexican type; and those scenes in the rocks the other day was bandit stuff with you for lead. It'll be you or Miguel—the Native Son, as they call him—and so far he's cast for another part. That's the worst of Luck. He won't talk about what he's going to do till he's all ready to do it.”
There was a little further discussion. Ramon muttered a few sentences—rapid instructions, Annie-Many-Ponies believed from the tone he used.
“All right, I'll keep you posted,” Bill Holmes replied in English. And he added as he started off, “You can send word by the squaw.”