Stratton’s eyes widened. “Ride!” he repeated. “Where the deuce do you want to ride to?”
Bemis hesitated, a slow flush creeping into his tanned face. The glance he bent on Stratton was somewhat shamefaced.
“Anywhere,” he answered curtly, a touch of defiance in his tone. “You’ll say I’ve lost my nerve, an’ maybe I have. But after what’s happened around this joint lately, and especially last night—”
He paused, glancing nervously toward the door. Buck’s expression had grown suddenly keen and eager.
“Well?” he urged. “What did happen, anyhow? I had my suspicions there was something queer about that business, but—You can trust me, old man.”
Bemis nodded, his dark eyes searching Stratton’s face. “I’ll take a chance,” he answered. “I got to. There ain’t nobody else. They’ve kept Bud away, 79 and Miss Mary—Well, she’s all right, uh course, but Tex has got her buffaloed. She won’t believe nothin’ ag’in him. I told Bud I’d stay as long as he did, but—A man’s got to look after himself some. They ain’t likely to miss twice runnin’.”
“You mean to say—”
Bemis stopped him with a cautious gesture. “Where’s that sneaking greaser?” he asked in a low tone, his eyes shifting nervously to the open door.
“Out saddling her horse.”
“Oh! Well, listen.” The young puncher’s voice sank almost to a whisper. “That sendin’ me down to Las Vegas was a plant; I’m shore of it. My orders was to sleep days an’ patrol around nights to get a line on who was after the cattle. I wasn’t awful keen about it, but still an’ all, I didn’t think they’d dare do what they tried to.”