“Getting ready for a journey?” said the voice casually.
Charlie looked round into the keen face of Stanley Fyles. He smiled pleasantly.
“Not exactly a journey,” he said. Then he glanced quickly at the hay-rack standing on its side. “Say, doing anything?” he cried, and his smile was not without derision.
“Nothing particular,” replied the police officer, “unless you reckon getting familiar with the geography of the valley particular.”
Charlie nodded.
“I’d say that’s particular for—a police officer.” His rich voice was at curious variance with his appearance. It was not unlike a terrier with the bay of a bloodhound.
The phenomenon was not lost upon Fyles. He was studying this meager specimen of a prairie “crook.” He had never before met one quite like him. He felt that here was a case of brain rather than physical outlawry. It might be harder to deal with than the savage, illiterate toughs he was used to.
“Yes,” returned Fyles, “we need to learn things.”
“Sure.”
Charlie pointed at the hay-rack.