“Conceded,” returned Robinson. “I’ll not say a word, providin’ you tell me where Murphy went to.”
“What you so dummed curious about Murphy for?”
“Born that way and can’t help it. Tell me, and I won’t say a word.”
“Well, Murphy he went to town, I guess. Satisfied?”
“Plenty.” Robinson looked straight ahead at the road, and grinned to himself.
Behind the two the cloud of dust moved rapidly closer. The Running Dog rider turned often in his saddle with uneasy scrutiny, but to make out the figure of the rider was impossible, for the breeze was stiffly behind them and blew the dust ahead.
Thus it was not until the drum of hoofs behind was distinctly audible that Robinson heard a low oath issue from his captor.
“It’s that fool Arnold from the Circle Bar! You, Robinson, keep your trap shut!”
Robinson grinned and made no response. But a moment later he looked over his shoulder, and remained looking.
Arnold was spurring his cayuse after the pair. Now he sent a hoarse yell ahead—a yell which caused the Running Dog man to jerk up his mount and turn, hand on gun.