"He's layin' to get a shot at our runner," declared Stover, while Mr. Cloudy, forgetting his Indian reserve, explained in classic English his own theory of the nocturnal visits. "Do you remember Humpy Joe? Well, they didn't cripple him, but he lost. I don't think Gallagher would injure Mr. Speed, but—he might—bribe him."
"Caramba!" exclaimed the Mexican.
"God 'lmighty!" Willie cried, in shocked accents.
"I believe you're right, but"—Stover meditated briefly before announcing with determination—"we'll do a little night-ridin' ourselves. Willie, you watch this young feller daytimes, and the rest of us'll take turns at night. An' don't lose sight of the fat man, neither—he might carry notes. If you don't like the looks of things—you know what cards to draw."
"Sixes," murmured the near-sighted cow-man. "Don't worry."
"If you see anything suspicious, burn it up. And we'll take a shot at anything we see movin' after 9 P.M."
Then Berkeley Fresno came hurriedly into the bunk-house with a very cheery "Good-morning! I'm glad I found you up and doing," he said blithely. "I thought of something in my sleep." It was evident that the speaker had been in more than ordinary haste to make his discovery known, for underneath his coat he still wore his pajama shirt, and his hair was unbrushed.
"What is it?"
"Your man Speed isn't taking care of himself."
"What did I tell you?" said Willie to his companions.