"He's up to something, Bill," conceded Packard. And called quietly to Blenham: "Every step you take on this ranch, I'm right along with you, Blenham."
Whereupon Blenham, his hesitation over, turned abruptly and went down to the corral, saddled, and rode away.
On the heels of the irate foreman's wordless departure Steve Packard and Bill Royce went together to the old ranch-house, where, settled comfortably in two big arm-chairs, they talked far into the night. A sharp glance about him as he lighted a lamp on the table showed Packard dust and disuse everywhere excepting the few untidy signs of Blenham's recent occupancy.
An old saddle sprawled loosely upon the living-room floor, littered about with bits of leather and buckles; from a nail hung a rusty, long-rowelled Mexican spur; on the hearth-stone were many cigarette stumps and an occasional cigar-end. An open door showed a tumbled bed, the covers trailing to the floor.
"I'd give a year off my life for a good look at you, Steve," said Royce a trifle wistfully. "Let's see—thirty-five now, ain't you?"
"Right," answered Packard.
"An' big?" asked Royce. "Six foot or better?"
"A shade better. About an inch and a half."
"Not heavy, though? Kind of lean an' long, like Phil Packard before you?"
Packard nodded; then, with Royce's sightless eyes upon him, he said hastily: