“Well, we’ll take a chance anyhow,” interposed Jack Kelly. “I can tell when a fool lies. If it is yore friend Tom Davis we won’t hurt him none.”
“Honest, you won’t hurt him?” asked Bill, grinning broadly. “No, I reckon you won’t, all right,” he added, for the sheriff was close at hand now and was coming up at a walk, and Bill had an abiding faith in that official. He could be a trifle reckless how he talked now. He laughed sarcastically and hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. “Nope, I reckon you won’t hurt him, not a little bit. Not if he knows you’re going to try it on him. And if it should be Mister Orphant, well, I hear that he’s dead sore on being hunted–don’t like it for a d––n. I also hear he drinks blood instead of water and whips five men before breakfast every morning to get up an appetite. Oh, no, and you won’t hurt him neither, will you?”
“Yore real pert, now ain’t yu?” shouted Curley angrily. “Yore a whole lot sassy an’ smart, ain’t yu? But if we find that he is that Orphant, we’ll pay yu a visit so yu can explain just why yore so d––d friendly with him. He seems to have a whole lot of friends about this country, he does! Even the sheriff won’t hurt him. Even th’ brave sheriff loses his trail. Must be somethin’ in it for somebody, eh?”
“You’d better tell that to somebody else, the sheriff, for instance. He’d like to think it over,” responded Bill easily. “It’s a good chance to see a little branding, a la Colt, as the French say. Tell it to him, why don’t you?”
“I’m a-tellin’ it to yu, now, an’ I’ll tell it to Shields when I sees him, yu overgrown baby, yu!” shouted Curley, his hand dropping to his Colt. “Everybody knows it! Everybody is a-talkin’ about it! An’ we’ll have a new sheriff, too, before long! An’ as for yu, if we wasn’t in such a hurry, we’d give yu a lesson yu’d never forget! That d––d Orphant has got a pull, but we’re goin’ to give him a push, an’ plumb into hell! Either a pull or our brave sheriff is some ascairt of him! He’s a fine sheriff, he is, th’ big baby!”
“Pleasant afternoon, Curley,” came from behind the group, accompanied by a soft laugh. The voice was very pleasant and low. Curley stiffened and turned in his saddle like a flash. The sheriff was smiling, but there was a glint in his fighting eyes that gave grave warning. The sheriff smiled, but some men smile when most dangerous, and as an assurance of mastery and coolness.
“Looking for strays, or is it mavericks?” he casually asked, a question which left no doubt as to what the smile indicated, for it was a challenge. Maverick hunting was at that time akin to rustling, and it was occurring on the range despite the sheriff’s best efforts to stop it.
Curley flushed and mumbled something about a missing herd. He had suddenly remembered the scene at the corral, and it had a most subduing effect on him. The sheriff regarded him closely and then noted the bullet holes in the coach. The door of the vehicle was closed, the curtains down, and no sound came from within it. The baggage flap had settled askew over the tell-tale trunks and hid them from sight on that side.
“Oh, it’s a missing herd this time, is it?” he inquired coolly. “Well, I reckon you won’t find it out here. They don’t wander over this layout while the Limping Water is running.”
“Well, we’ll take a look down south aways; it won’t do no harm now that we’ve got this far,” replied Larry. “Come on, boys,” he cried. “We’ve wasted too much time with th’ engineer.”