"We'll only take supper," said Mosely.
"Just as you say."
"We're so used to campin' out that we couldn't breathe in-doors—eh, Tom?"
"I should say so, Bill."
"Suit yourselves, strangers. I reckon you'll want breakfast in the mornin'."
"As likely as not." Then, turning his attention to the mustangs: "Are them mustangs yours, landlord?"
"No; they belong to a party that's stoppin' with me."
"Will they sell?"
"I reckon not. There's a lame man in the party, and he can't walk much."
"A lame man? Who is with him?" asked Bill Mosely, with a sudden suspicion of the truth.