“Oh! So that’s why they had you tied up?” queried Steve Arnold.
“Somethin’ like that.” Robinson smiled. “Steve, can I trust you to turn in back there and say nothin’—keep your head level—just be nice and polite to Buck and his man Chuck Hansom? Can ye do it, cowboy?”
“Can if I got to. Why?”
“Then go do it, and stick around till you gets a chance to wise up Stella to the facts of the case. Take Buck’s rifle; we may need a real gun ’fore we get through. I’ll ride this feller’s hoss and take his Winchester. Buck’s hoss we’ll send home by his ownself.”
Suiting action to words, Robinson took the bridle of the dead man’s mount, then with a slap and a wave of his hat sent Buck’s beast careering down the road. Arnold sat looking down at him darkly.
“Where you goin’, Red?”
Robinson’s old quizzical smile broke forth. “Me? I got to get to town in time to call for some mail——”
“To town, ye durned fool! Ridin’ a Runnin’ Dog cayuse? Here, you take this hoss o’ mine and I’ll take—”
“And give our game away to Buck? Not on your young life, cowboy! I want Mr. Buck to think I’m safe behind the bars—until he gets home and finds his own hoss, anyhow. Nope, you amble along and don’t waste worry over me. Your job is to take the worry off Stella’s mind, savvy?”
“You’ve got mighty well acquainted, Red. Callin’ her Stella, huh?”