Had the Overland Rider not been so fully occupied with satisfying his hunger, he probably would have been more observant. As it was he did not see a horseman ride up, dismount and peer into the shack. Nor did he see the fellow’s expression when he looked over Stacy’s mount. The newcomer rode away quietly to a distance and then put his pony to a run.
Half an hour later while the boy was still eating, and just as he was about to place a biscuit in his mouth, a voice out of the silence arrested him.
“Put up yer hands, young feller! I’ve got ye covered,” warned the voice.
The hand that held the biscuit was already raised to a level with his mouth, and the other promptly went above his head.
“Turn around, an’ let’s git a look at ye!”
Stacy turned and found himself facing a weapon in the hands of a man at the door. Just to the rear of the man with the gun were half a dozen others.
“Tough-lookin’ critter, all right. Who be ye?” demanded the hold-up man.
“Name’s Brown,” answered the fat boy, transferring the biscuit to his mouth and beginning to chew on it.
“Whar’d ye git that cayuse?”
“Maybe I stole him,” answered Chunky thickly, for the biscuit was large. “What difference does it make to you where I got him?”