“Guess you don’t feel like giving us a hand tipping that on to the wagon? I’m going haying to-morrow.”
“Sure,” cried Fyles, with an easy smile, as he leaped out of the saddle. He passed into the old corral and his quick eyes took in every detail at a glance. They came to rest on the slight figure of the man and noted his costume. Charlie Bryant was clad in loose riding breeches, but was coatless. Nor did he display any firearms. “Two-man job, isn’t it?” he said lightly. “And you guessed to do it—single?”
Charlie’s smile was blandly disarming.
“No. I hadn’t thought to get it on to-day. The Kid’ll be with me to-morrow, or maybe my brother, Bill.”
“Ah. Brother Bill could about eat that rack on his own,” Fyles declared, as the two men set about the task.
It was a far lighter affair than it looked, and, in less than five minutes was resting perfectly balanced in its place on the wagon. Fyles looked on while Charlie went round and bolted the rack securely in its place.
“Your wagon?” the officer observed casually, while his sharp eyes took in its last details.
Charlie nodded.
“Yes. Folks borrow it some. You see, I don’t need it a heap, except at hay time.”
“No, I don’t guess you need it a heap. Say, this is a queer place tucked away up here. Old cattle station, I guess.”