“He says his name is Owens, an’ that he lives two mile from Rochdale,” Bob heard his host answer.
“So’s my grandmother’s name Owens,” said the one who had first spoken. “I tell you, Aleck, he’s the fellow we have been a lookin’ fur, an’ you, bein’ a justice, had oughter make out a warrant at once.”
“’Pears like he’s mighty bold to bring the hoss back here where he b’longs,” said another. “He’s a powerful peart, honest-lookin’ boy, too.”
“Mebbe it aint the hoss we think it is,” said the grocer. “He says his pap raised him, and seems to me he don’t look like Tom’s lost creetur, nuther.”
“Wal, we’ll know in a few minutes, fur Tom will be here directly. Sam’s jest gone arter him. What brung this boy up here, any how?”
“He’s goin’ to St. Louis. He tells a mighty straight story, but thar’s one thing about it that don’t look jest right to me. Arter the hoss has done got through eatin’, he’s goin’ to put the saddle onto him an’ turn him loose to find his own way back to his hum.”
“Aha!” exclaimed one of the idlers, whose voice Bob had not heard before. “That shows that the creetur don’t b’long to him. If he did, he’d take better care on him nor that. Somebody would be sartin to pick the hoss up for a stray afore he had gone a mile. Here comes Tom, now.”
Bob heard a shuffling of feet, as if the idlers were moving in a body toward the door, then some subdued words of greeting, followed by more stamping of feet, which gradually died away as the men moved off together. Presently, Bob heard the sound of voices in the back yard, and rising from his chair he stepped to a window and looked out. He saw a dozen men there, and they were walking toward the stable. When they reached it the grocer went in and brought out Bob’s horse, and the others gathered about him and examined him closely. When their investigations were concluded the animal was led back into the stable again and the men came toward the house.
“Why, I really believe they take me for a horse-thief,” thought Bob, and the idea amused him. “Thank goodness, I am not as bad as that. I expect to steal horses from the Indians some day—Wild Bill and Texas Jack and all those fellows do it, and there’s no harm in it; but I’ll never steal from a white man. I only hope I shall be lucky enough to find the Comanche chief who rides that white pacer. He’s the horse I’ve got my eye on, and he’s worth having, for he is so swift that he can beat anything on the prairie out of sight in a five-mile race.”
Bob, who was not at all disturbed by the knowledge that the grocer and his friends suspected him of being anything but an honest boy, walked back to his seat at the table and helped himself to another egg. A few seconds later the men entered the store and Bob heard the clerk inquire: