Two-Spot wandered around and put the question to Cimarron.
The segundo regarded him with level gaze. "It's for th' widder's mite," he answered. "We're on th' rustle, which ain't to be told."
"Huh!" snorted Two-Spot, "you might be aimin' for some widder, at that; but I'm sayin' that if she sees you first, you'll need more'n eight men an' a waggin to take her away from her home an' fambly. What are you aimin' to rustle?"
"Every cow on a certain ranch between here an' Juniper," whispered Cimarron, looking stealthily around.
"Then don't you waste no time hangin' around here," warned Two-Spot, also looking stealthily around. "Big Tom's gettin' up early these mornin's, I bets."
Cimarron gravely shook his head, whereat Two-Spot remarked carelessly, apropos of nothing, "Smitty has left th' range for good. He had two holes in his hat, th' upper hole like a coffeepot with th' lid back. He rode his own hoss, an' was goin' strong when he passed here. But nobody was chasin' him, then."
"Hey, fellers!" shouted the segundo, joyously, "Smitty has follered Squint, with a couple of gun-shot wounds in his Mex. hat!"
Laughter and cheerful remarks greeted the news, and Dave had to verify it.
"Bar H: mark two!" cried Norris. "Bring 'em up, you ropers—th' irons are hot!"
Two-Soot, despairing of gaining any real information in Dave's, shuffled out and went to Dailey's where Art French was putting the last of the provisions on the wagon.