The bunk-house lamp illuminated the faces of five very much surprised cow-punchers. Teddy, who was holding the note, turned it over as though the explanation of its strange arrival might be printed on the back.
“ ’Pears like we’re a gang of hicks,” Gus drawled. “Nick, why didn’t you stop that guy? Maybe he could have told us when he was appointed postman.”
“Why didn’t you stop him yourself?” Nick snorted. “You were as near to him as I was. He rode by almost on yore feet.”
“Notice anything queer about the way he rode?” came from Pop. The veteran puncher pulled at his pipe calmly and surveyed the men about him.
“Sure!” Teddy answered. “He was slouched to the left, like he was aiming to sweep something up from the ground. Why, say, Roy, he might have been—”
“He might have been and was,” Roy returned grimly. “I’ll take a bet that he was the same hombre I saw back on the trail!”
“You mean the waddy you thought was one of the rustlers?” Pop asked curiously.
“Yes, that’s just what I mean. Of course I didn’t get a very good look at him as he flashed by, but he sure looked familiar. What was that he yelled out?”
“Couldn’t get it,” Nick replied. “Don’t matter, anyway. Now about this note. What’ll we do with it?”
“Give it to Sing Lung to make a stew out of,” Pop suggested ironically. “Or maybe you’d rather frame it? But unless you want to do that, it might be a good idea to show it to the boss.”