A hammock hung in the shade of the cottonwoods, where the breeze blew cool and refreshing, and he invited Wellesly to stretch himself there until dinner should be ready. A vaquero took his horse to the stable and Wellesly threw himself into the hammock and looked up into the green thickets of the trees with a soul-satisfying sense of relief and comfort. His revolver in his hip pocket interfered with his ease and he took it out and laid it on a chair beside the hammock. Then he pulled his hat over his eyes and in five minutes was asleep.
There was only one vaquero at the ranch house, and he and Billy Haney and Wellesly were the only human beings within many miles. When the cow-boy had taken care of Wellesly’s horse Haney called him into the kitchen. The man was tall and sinewy, with a hatchet face, a thin-lipped mouth and a sharp chin.
“Jim,” said Haney, “I’ve got a scheme in my ’ead about that man, and I think there’ll be lots of money in it. Do you want to come in?”
“What’ll it be worth to me?”
“If there’s anything in it, there’ll be a big pile and we’ll go ’alf and ’alf, and if there isn’t—well, of course there’s chances to be took in everything.”
“What’ll it cost?”
“Some work and some nerve, and then a quick scoot.”
“All right, Billy. What’s your play?”
When they had finished their planning Haney walked softly toward the hammock. A gentle snore from beneath the hat told him that Wellesly was sleeping quietly. He took the revolver from the chair, removed the cartridges from the six chambers and put it back in the same position. Then he walked around to the other side of the sleeper and called him in a hearty tone. Wellesly rose yawning, and they started toward the house for luncheon.
“You’ve forgotten your revolver, sir,” said Billy.