“Yes,” Hopalong replied coolly, appraising Harlan's attitude and look in one swift glance, “but it ain't here, now. Johnny, get out,” he ordered, backing after his companion, and safely outside, the two walked towards Jackson's store, Johnny complaining about the little time spent in the Oasis.
As they entered the store they saw Edwards, whose eye asked a question.
“No; he ain't in there yet,” Hopalong replied.
“Did you look all over? Behind the bar?” Edwards asked, slowly. “He can't get out of town through that cordon you've got strung around it, an' he ain't nowhere else. Leastwise, I couldn't find him.”
“Come on back!” excitedly exclaimed Johnny, turning towards the door. “You didn't look behind the bar! Come on—bet you ten dollars that's where he is!”
“Mebby yo're right, Kid,” replied Hopalong, and the marshal's nodding head decided it.
In the saloon there was strong language, and Jack Quinn, expert skinner of other men's cows, looked inquiringly at the proprietor. “What's up now, Harlan?”
The proprietor laughed harshly but said nothing—taciturnity was his one redeeming trait. “Did you say cigars?” he asked, pushing a box across the bar to an impatient customer. Another beckoned to him and he leaned over to hear the whispered request, a frown struggling to show itself on his face. “Nix; you know my rule. No trust in here.”
But the man at the far end of the line was unlike the proprietor and he prefaced his remarks with a curse. “I know what's up! They want Jerry Brown, that's what! An' I hopes they don't get him, the bullies!”
“What did he do? Why do they want him?” asked the man who had wanted trust.