"Any call for ye to ride home to-night?"
"None," said Smoky.
"Reckon ye'd better camp here, then."
Smoky nodded and muttered--
"Don't keer if I do," a polite form of acceptance in the California foothills.
Presently Ransom went out. Smoky was left alone. He filled his corn- cob pipe, stretched out his legs, and smiled, thinking of his own brown bird. Suddenly a glint came into his bright blue eyes. In the corner of the room, against the wall, leaned the two Sharp rifles. Smoky glanced about him, rose, walked to the corner, bent down, and smelt the muzzle of Ransom's rifle. Then he slipped his forefinger into the barrel and smelt that.
"Sufferin' Moses!" he exclaimed.
His mouth was slightly twisted, as he picked up the rifle and opened the breech. He drew out a used cartridge, which he examined with another exclamation.
"Holy Mackinaw!"
He put the cartridge into his pocket and glanced round for the second time. He could hear Mintie washing-up in the kitchen. Ransom was feeding his horses. Smoky took a cleaning-rod, ran it through the rifle, and examined the bit of cloth, which was wet and greasy. Then he replaced the rifle and went back to the table, where Ransom found him when he returned a few minutes later. The two men smoked in silence. Presently Ransom said abruptly:--