While Mr. Cook, Roy and Weston were at supper, Marshal Wooley appeared in a state of some concern.
“Yer right, Colonel, I reckon,” he said looking at Mr. Cook in a knowing way. “He lit out to-day up the river—’bout a quarter after nine. Took his own pony—’tain’t much. I got a couple o’ boys on the trail a’ready. They’d ought to overhaul him afore to-morrey night. He’s headin’ fur Dolores.”
Mr. Cook smiled.
“All right, Wooley. Have a cigar. Much obliged.”
“I reckon he got it,” went on the marshal sagely. “But he’s got a nerve. He took an awful chanct.”
Sink Weston ventured an opinion.
“He’s sure got sense enough to know he can’t go to Dolores with no bundle like that on him. I reckon he’ll hit the first hard ground he comes to fur the mountains. Mr. Cook,” he added, “I’d ruther go lookin’ fur Mike than measurin’ timber.”
He pushed back his chair as if he would like to begin the quest at once.
“Them two ponies I got air ’bout as likely to ketch up with him as any hoss flesh ’round hyar.”
Mr. Cook smiled again.