“Hallo, Bill,” the deputy sheriff answered. “Yes, it’s me all right.”
And Curly Bill opened the door wider, revealing his burly form.
“Put up yo’r pony in the corral,” he said, “and come in.”
When Breckenbridge had complied with the last part of the invitation he found the bare room filled with men. The McLowery boys were there, two of them, and the Clantons. Half a dozen other outlaws were lounging about, and Curly Bill himself was looking none too pleasant as he nodded to the visitor.
“Cain’t tell who might come ridin’ in these nights,” he growled by way of explanation for his curt welcome. “Set up and eat a bite now yo’ ’re here.”
The lateness of the meal and the general dishevelment of the room’s occupants made it clear to the guest that every one had been riding hard that day. It was an awkward moment and the constraint endured long after the last man had shoved back his chair and rolled his brown-paper cigarette.
Curly Bill found an opportunity to get young Breckenbridge off to one side during the evening.
“What’s on yore mind?” he asked.
The deputy told him.