Steve Arnold grunted. “What you want to run for, then?”
“Me? I ain’t running,” and Robinson laughed. “I’m off to see the country, that’s all. Maybe Miss Shumway will sort of take to me more, if you introduce me.”
Arnold glanced at him suspiciously.
“You tryin’ to run some joke on me, Red?”
“None a-tall, Steve; cross my heart! Sure’s my name’s Jack Robinson, I’m a quiet and peaceable stranger what always gets took in. When Jake Harper gets done orating to Buck, that affluent gentleman will give up lookin’ for me, except by accident. He won’t be real sure whether I’m workin’ for Jake or not, and the Circle Bar boys won’t be sure neither. In fact, nobody will be sure of anything, except you and me. That’s the best way to play her, ain’t it?”
“Looks all right,” vouchsafed Arnold. “Got your saddle handy?”
Ten minutes later the two were quietly drawing away from the Circle Bar without making any effusive farewells. They had been riding for perhaps five minutes more, when both pulled up their horses suddenly. Across the night lifted the faint bang of a shotgun.
“That’s Jake’s old Brown Bess,” said Steve. “Trouble back of us!”
Robinson held up a hand for silence. They sat motionless, listening. No further shot came, and Robinson relaxed with a soft laugh.
“Nope, no trouble. We slid out just in time, Steve. Buck comes riding up, and old Jake salutes him out of the darkness, then apologizes for the mistake. Savvy? Buck accepts the apology—otherwise we’d have heard real trouble a-starting. Let’s go, cowboy!”