“Handsome is as handsome does, Abel. Reckon I’d sooner run sheep than get chloroformed and hogtied tryin’ to jump a claim.”
A fleeting contraction passed across the face of Abel Dorales. His eyes narrowed to thin slits. His nostrils quivered like the nose of a dog sniffing game. He became white-lipped, cruel, venomous.
The four red-faced men stirred. One of them rose, yawning, and stretched himself as does a weary man who thinks well of bed for the night. Abel Dorales took sudden warning. He looked to the right and to the left; then, without a word more, he turned on his heel and walked away, following Mackintavers out into the night.
“Trust a Mex to smell trouble!” said one of the men to the left of Fred Ross. “He reckoned we was planted to do him up.”
“Well, wasn’t we?” queried someone. All laughed in unison. Ross smiled grimly and left his chair.
“Much obliged to ye, boys. I didn’t know they would come alone, or I wouldn’t ha’ bothered ye.”
Outside the hotel, meantime, Mackintavers had joined James Z. Premble, who appeared to have been awaiting him. A moment later Abel Dorales, mouthing low and vitriolic curses, joined them. In silence the three men turned to the left and walked down to the railroad track. There, beyond the warehouse, they stood with open and empty space around them, and none to overhear.
“Didn’t look for ye quite so soon, Premble,” said Mackintavers, chuckling a little as he used the name.
“Got a good chance at my man,” returned the other. “Came in this afternoon, Sandy, but couldn’t catch you at the ranch. Ready for me to work?”
“Aiblins, yes; reckon we’d better get busy, you and I.” He turned to Dorales. “Abel, our man has gone to St. Johns with Murray. You have plenty o’ friends in that Mormon town, so take the big car and mosey along. Do whatever you want with Shea, but bring me back that bunch o’ stone gods if ye value your life! I’ll be at Mrs. Crump’s location.”