“My dear boy, you don’t know anything about that man if you think he wouldn’t follow me to Europe,” said Mr. Davenport sadly. “If he is alive, Bob will hear from him; and that he is still alive I am forced to believe from the actions of this man Johnson. I don’t expect to come back here, and I want you two boys to swear to what I have told you. You will, won’t you?”
Of course Tom and I agreed to it, and then we wondered what sort of a man Clifford Henderson could be to scare his half brother so badly as that.
CHAPTER III.
’RASTUS JOHNSON.
Having no wish to pry into Mr. Davenport’s affairs any further than he was willing to reveal them to us, we did not question the invalid, although there were some points in his story that I should have liked to have cleared up. He seemed to know that ’Rastus Johnson was employed by Clifford Henderson, and I wanted to know what reason he had for thinking so; but he was sadly used up by his talking, and settled back in his chair in a state of complete exhaustion. It was this state that troubled me. I began to think that when his time came to go he would go suddenly.
Presently Bob came up accompanied by Elam. I strolled off to find ’Rastus Johnson. You see I was as much interested in that pocket-book Mr. Davenport carried in his coat as I was in anything else. ’Rastus Johnson must have known that he carried it there, and if anything should happen while the invalid was alone the pocket-book would be found missing; and without a will where would Bob be? Henderson could claim his property as next of kin, and Bob would be left out in the cold. I knew that Tom understood all this as well as I did. At any rate I would speak to him about it the very first chance I had, and arrange it with him so as to keep Mr. Davenport under guard the whole time.
It did not take me long to find ’Rastus Johnson. The ranch stood on the edge of a little grove, and there, under one of the trees, I found the man of whom I was in search. His hat was pulled over his eyes, as if he were fast asleep, and the belt containing his revolvers lay near him on the ground. Evidently they had just received an extra rubbing. He started up as he heard my footsteps and pulled the hat off his face.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said he, with a long-drawn yawn. “How-dy. What does the old man have to say to you? He says more to you than he has to me, and I’ve been on this ranch for three months.”
“Yes, he has had a good deal to say to Tom and me. He has been telling us about the threats of Clifford Henderson. Seen anything of him lately?” I asked, as if I didn’t care whether or not he answered my question.
I asked this abruptly, as I meant to do, and the answer I got set all my doubts at rest. The man was in the employ of Henderson—that was a fact; and while he used his own time in getting his wits about him, I busied myself in giving him a good looking over. He was a giant in strength and stature, long haired and full bearded, and when he sat up and looked at me, I knew I was looking into the eyes of a desperado of the worst sort. His clothes were not in keeping with the story of poverty he had told when he first came to Mr. Davenport’s ranch. They were whole and clean, and his high-top boots looked as though they had just come from the hands of the maker. There was something about the man that made me think he was wanted somewhere else—that there was a rope in keeping for him, if the parties who held it only knew where to find him. He looked at me for fully a minute without speaking, then rested his elbows on his knees and looked down at the ground.