For a moment there was a change in the hobo’s face. The fawning expression was replaced by a broad, lovable grin that made the punchers’ hearts warm toward Jim Anson. Toothpick started. For a moment he studied the hobo’s face, saw the fawning smile there again, and shook his head.
The five adjourned to Maria’s Cantina, on the corner of Depot Street. Jim Anson insisted that the first drink was on him and ordered it in a loud voice. Another followed and another. Toothpick chuckled when he saw that, while Jim Anson always ordered the drinks, one of the three riders paid for them.
All the while Jim Anson asked them questions in such a way that they never realized they were being pumped. He turned on Toothpick and skillfully ferreted from him the story of the murder of the Courfay family two weeks before.
“When we got there they was all dead, except one gent what says: ‘Fees do dible chable’ which I figures is French.” Toothpick rambled on with his story, but Jim Anson was not listening.
“Fils du Diable à Cheval,” he muttered to himself. “Sons of the Devil on Horseback. Gosh!”
A little later “Mac” Kennedy, an Eastern dude, sauntered in. Jim Anson, after studying him a minute, turned to the others.
“Who’s that gazebo all dressed up like a Christmas tree?” he asked.
“He’s a white-livered dude,” Windy snorted contemptuously.
“He comes out here about three months back and says it’s for his health,” Kansas elaborated. “Buys the Bar X, a little runt of a ranch what backs up against the lava fields.”
“He don’t look yellow,” Anson said meditatively.