Hepburn glanced about cautiously and just before he turned to reply his eyes met Beck's gaze, cold and hard this time, flinging an unmistakable challenge at him.
"Not a horse," he mumbled. "They're sneaking out of the country with 'em. Tom, come here,"—with a jerk of his head. Beck walked over and sat down. "Did you hear what the Reverend says?" Dad asked. "About the horses?"
"Yes, I ain't surprised. Are you?"
His eyes, again amused, bored into Hepburn's face with the query:
"No, but—"
The sharp batter of running hoofs cut him short. The whole assemblage was listening. The rider stopped short at the gate, they heard it creak and a moment later he came across toward the bunk house at a high lope. They heard him speak gruffly to the horse, heard the creak of leather as he swung down and then jingling spurs marked his further progress toward the door.
It was Henry Riley, owner of the Bar Z ranch, thirty miles down Coyote creek. A cattleman of the old order, a man not given to haste or excitement. His appearance caught the interest of all, for he was breathing fast and his eyes blazed.
"Where's Dad?" he asked and Hepburn, rising, said: "Here. What's the matter, Henry?"
"Who's this nester in Devil's Hole?" Riley asked.
"Why ... I didn't know there was a nester there."