On the other side of the house no one was in sight. He hastened to the back, but the peg left by the cookie on the outside of the screen door when he departed after his evening's work proved that no one had entered there since.
Stamford leaned against the wall, completely mystified. He looked around, poking in the grass, yet without hope. The woman had vanished.
He remembered Hobbles and, gulping down a desire to cuddle into the bedclothes, hurried to the stable. The mysteries increased—the stable was locked. From the bunk-house came the noisy snoring of the cookie. With his duplicate key he let himself into the stable and found Hobbles—unsaddled—as if she had never been out, though her sides were still slightly warm.
Stamford crept out. It was uncanny.
The soft padding of a horse down the slope to the east, far from the trail, brought him to a sense of his exposure. Diving between two buildings, he waited. The rider turned off toward the corrals, evidently moving with caution, and a few minutes later Cockney Aikens came round the corner of one of the buildings that concealed Stamford, stopped a moment to listen to the snoring of the cook, and passed on to the house.
His steps were still audible when another horse came along the same course, but it did not turn off to the corrals. Stamford slunk further into his hiding-place as Dakota Fraley rode past and drew up before the bunk-house.
To Stamford's amazement Bean Slade came out.
"Who in h—l's been riding about here to-night?" Dakota demanded.
"Nobody—not that I've heard," returned Bean in a whisper.
"You been sleeping so tight, I guess, it ud take a kick on the ear to wake you."