“Hello, Ross. Just the man I was looking for. Know a man name o’ Shea, Thady Shea?”
“Evening,” returned Ross, easily. “Sure I know him. Seen him a while ago.”
“Know where he is now?” asked Mackintavers without too great show of interest.
“Uh-huh. He went off with Bill Murray to St. Johns a couple of hours ago. Murray was in some hurry, believe me! He’d been laid up here with a busted car, and had to get out his paper to-morrow sure pop, so he aimed to travel some to-night. You interested in Shea?”
“Some.” Mackintavers bit into a cigar. Over the cigar, his eyes fell upon James Z. Premble of New York, who was also looking at him. After an instant Premble rose and left the hotel.
Ross had not hesitated to impart the information about Thady Shea, for the excellent reason that if Mackintavers followed Shea to St. Johns, he would miss Thady Shea entirely. Therein Fred Ross made a mistake. It did not occur to him that Dorales, in a high-powered car, might follow the tracks of Murray’s flivver where it struck from the highroad upon the Old Fort Tularosa trail.
“’Bliged to ye, Ross.” With this curt speech, Mackintavers heaved himself out of his chair and went to the door. He passed out into the night.
Abel Dorales left the cigar stand, and also started for the door. But he stopped before Fred Ross, exchanged a word of greeting, and his white teeth showed in a smile. It was not a pleasant smile.
“I hear you’re going to run sheep on your ranch, Ross,” he said clearly. “Bad manners for an old cowman, isn’t it?”
The four red-faced men laid aside their newspapers. They seemed to take sudden interest in Abel Dorales. Fred Ross looked up, unsmiling, his eyes hard and cold.