“There,” said the landlord, pointing to the dark corner where the big Englishman lay, apparently fast asleep, with his hat pulled well down over his eyes.
Buck Tom looked at the sleeping figure for a few moments.
“H’m! well, I might guide him,” he said, with something of a grim smile, “but I’m travelling too fast for comfort. He might hamper me. By the way,” he added, looking back as he laid his hand on the door, “you may tell the Rankin Creek Company, with my compliments, to buy a new lock to their office door, for I intend to call on them some day soon and balance up that little account on a new system of ’rithmetic! Tell them I give ’em leave to clap the one dollar ten cents to the credit of their charity account.”
Another moment and Buck Tom was gone. Before the company in the tavern had quite recovered the use of their tongues, the hoofs of his horse were heard rattling along the road which led in the direction of Traitor’s Trap.
“Was that really Buck Tom?” asked Hunky Ben, in some surprise.
“Ay—or his ghost,” answered the landlord.
“I can swear to him, for I saw him as clear as I see you the night he split after me,” said the cowboy, who had warned the Englishman.
“Why didn’t you put a bullet into him to-night, Crux?” asked a comrade.
“Just so—you had a rare chance,” remarked another of the cow-boys, with something of a sneer in his tone.
“Because I’m not yet tired o’ my life,” replied Crux, indignantly. “Back Tom has got eyes in the back o’ his head, I do believe, and shoots dead like a flash—”