Curtis crossed the room and dropped into a chair. “And what—what had we better do?” he asked. For some time the other made no answer. His brows were knit, and he tramped the room, scowling at the floor. Then with an exclamation of alarm he stepped lightly to the door of the exchange and threw back the curtain. In the other room, Cahill stood at its furthest corner, scooping sugar from a hogshead.
Crosby's scowl relaxed, and, reseating himself at the table, he rolled a cigarette. “Now, if he pulls it off,” he whispered, “and gets back to quarters, then—it's a case of all's well. But, if he's shot, or caught, and it all comes out, then it's up to us to prove he meant it as a practical joke.”
“It isn't our duty to report it now, is it?” asked Curtis, nervously.
“Certainly not! If he chooses to make an ass of himself, that's none of our business. Unless he's found out, we have heard nothing and seen nothing. If he's caught, then we've got to stick by him, and testify that he did it on a bet. He'll probably win out all right. There is nobody expected on the stage but that Miss Post and her aunt. And the driver's an old hand. He knows better than to fight.”
“There may be some cowboys coming up.”
“That's Ranson's lookout. As Cahill says, the Red Rider takes his chances.”
“I wish there was something we could do now,” Curtis protested, petulantly. “I suppose we've just got to sit still and wait for him?”
“That's all,” answered Crosby, and then leaped to his feet. “What's that?” he asked. Out on the parade ground, a bugle-call broke suddenly on the soft spring air. It rang like an alarm. The noise of a man running swiftly sounded on the path, and before the officers reached the doorway Sergeant Clancey entered it, and halted at attention.
“The colonel's orders,” panted the sergeant, “and the lieutenant's are to take twenty men from G and H Troops, and ride to Kiowa to escort the paymaster.”
“The paymaster!” Crosby cried. “He's not coming till Thursday.”