Stamford found himself wondering now, as he had then. He swung Hobbles off to the south, and when the wagon had turned down the slope to the ranch stables, he rode slowly back to the crest of the slope. The wagon had just pulled up before the bunk-house.
The driver was lifting several rifles from the wagon to carry them inside, the other cowboys, who had returned while he was riding, looking on. Stamford's eyes gleamed with a sudden revelation.
That lonesome mess-wagon of the H-Lazy Z on the day of the double tragedy had concealed the rifles the Police could not find. Its puzzling departure—Dakota's objection to feeding Mary Aikens at the ranch mess-wagon—it was all clear now.
Down the slope he could see Dakota, Bean and several strange members of the outfit watching him. Whereupon he promptly fell off, scrambled into the saddle again, and rode in clinging to the horn.
"You're shore conside'ble of a horseman," chaffed Dakota. "If I was you I'd patent that style and sell it to a circus. Barnum's got clowns not half so funny."
"We're always funniest when we don't suspect it," returned Stamford. "I hope nobody will tell you the truth about yourself, Dakota; it would spoil things for the spectators."
Dakota forced the frown from his face with a smile. For some reason he preferred to be friendly.
"You and me should mate up. We could put on a show for the ranch folks some night. But you seem to be having fun without it. We can hear you out here. Say, that Bulkeley gal shore can sing some, eh?"
Stamford resented words and tone.
"It happens that she never sings."