Simpson leaned against the wall and gasped. When he got his breath he turned to Stannard savagely. "Where's your rifle?"
"In the corner behind you," Stannard replied, and Simpson, seizing the rifle, jerked open the breech.
"My cartridge shells won't fit."
"It's possible," said Stannard. "I didn't engage to lend you ammunition, but if you go to the barn, you'll find a brown valise. Bring me the valise and I may find you a box of cartridges."
"Do you reckon Bob is going to wait until I get all fixed?"
"That's another thing," said Stannard pleasantly.
Simpson put down the rifle. "In about a minute the fellow'll hit the timber and his sort don't leave much trail. Then you have not pulled out yet."
"You imagine if you went after Bob and did not find him, you might not find me when you came back?"
"That's so," Simpson agreed. "Not long since I reckoned I'd got the gang. Now you're all that's left. The packers don't count."
"Oh, well," said Stannard, smiling. "I'll agree to remain. I expect to pay a fine for poaching, although I didn't know I was on the reserve. Since I'm resigned, it doesn't look as if my friends had an object for shooting Douglas. You see, I killed the big-horn."