Fyles was distinctly smiling as he urged him.
But Bill had no intention of blundering further. He laughed, but without his usual buoyancy.
“Say, what are you doing up here?” he demanded, seeking to turn the tables on the officer. “Rounding up ‘strays’?”
At that moment a black cloud swept swiftly across the face of the moon. And though Fyles’s smile had broadened at the other’s clumsy attempt at subterfuge, it was quite lost upon Bill in the darkness.
Fyles glanced quickly at the sky.
“Storm,” he said. Then he turned back to his questioner. “Why, I guess I’m always chasing ‘strays.’ They’re toughs mostly—pretty bad ’uns, too.” Then he laughed audibly. “Makes me laugh,” he went on. “I’ve been tracking the fellow for quite a piece. And all the time he’s your brother. You’re sure?”
Bill nodded. He was still feeling uncomfortable.
“I’m glad you saw him,” Fyles went on at once. “It’s put us wise. We don’t need to waste any more time. It’s lucky, with a storm coming on. Guess we’ll get right back, McBain,” he added, turning to his companion.
Fyles had no more difficulty in fooling the guileless Bill than O’Brien had.
“Going home?” Bill inquired of the officer as the latter turned to his horse.