“Does that look like it?”
Robinson began to roll a cigarette. “If I was you, cowboy, I’d waste no more time lookin’ farther for them two gents. No, sir, it’d be an awful waste of time, and, accordin’ to looks, you got no time to waste.”
“Meaning what, pardner?” Arnold inspected him, narrow-eyed, cautious.
“Just this.” Robinson finished his cigarette and tucked it between his lips. “Feller named Buck was in Pahrump to-day, meetin’ a friend on the stage. Friend called himself Murphy, but his real handle was Pincher Brady, savvy? Them two gents was due to leave town shortly behind me, riding thisa-way. Now, when they get to where I got, back apiece, they’re going to meet up with them same two gents you made mention of—same being Matt Brady and a little rat name o’ Knute. Do you foller?”
“Right behind,” said Arnold, thin-lipped, watchful. “Elucidate!”
“Why, that’s about all of it, I reckon!” Robinson touched a match to his cigarette. “Only, when the first two meet up with the last two, there’s going to be a heap of grief spilled. I don’t guess Pincher Brady has much fraternal affection to spoil; same time, it’s bound to be a shock, meetin’ his brother like that.”
“Oh!” said Arnold. “By gosh, d’you mean to say——”
“I ain’t sayin’ at all,” and Robinson smiled whimsically. “Only I darned near got this new hat ruined. Somebody’s goin’ to get blamed for what happened. Maybe it’ll be me, and maybe you, accordin’ to which one Buck sees first. By the way, ain’t that a Circle Bar brand on your hoss?”
“So taken and accepted.” Arnold was staring at him hard now. “S’pose you and me ride back a ways, Robinson—same way you was heading.”
“How come?” Robinson surveyed him with lifted brows.