"They-all told me to cleah out," he finished whimsically, "so I cleahed out the Idle Hour. Or rathah, I got the job started. Some one theah," he added, "handed me this note. That's why I'm heah."
The big man looked at it, and his face lighted. "A short fella gave yuh that? I thought so! That was George Durham—one o' my men. He's there as a spy."
"As a spy?" the Texan repeated blankly. "I'm afraid this is gettin' too deep fo' me, Mistah——"
"McCay is the name. 'Old Beef McCay, they call me," he chuckled.
"This lad, yuh've already met. He's Tip McCay, and my son. And you?"
"Kid Wolf, sah, from Texas—just 'Kid' to my friends."
The five punchers, who had been listening with intense interest to the
Texan's story, came forward to shake hands. They were introduced as
Caldwell, Anderson, Blake, Terry White, and "Scotty." All were
keen-eyed, resolute men.
"Now I'll tell yuh what this is all about," said the elder McCay. "When I spoke of a spy, I meant that Durham is there to see if he can find out why Jack Hardy has imported those gunmen, and what he plans to do. Yuh see, I'm a cattle buyer. At this halfway point I buy lots o' herds from owners who don't wish to drive 'em through to Dodge. Then I sell 'em there at a profit—when I can."
"And Jack Hahdy?" drawled the Texan.
"Hardy is nothin' more or less than a cattle rustler—a dealer in stolen herds on a large scale. He's swore to get me, at the time when it'll do him the most good. In other words, at the time when he can get the most loot.
"So far," McCay went on, "there's been no bloodshed. To-day it seems he's had Hodgson murdered. Looks as if things are about ripe for war!"