McBain needed no such protection. His mahogany face screwed itself up until his eyes were mere slits.
“It ain’t part of the patrol?” he said questioningly. “Yet it’s one of our fellers. Maybe it’s a—despatch.”
Fyles’s brows drew sharply together in a frown of annoyance.
“If the chief’s sent me the word I’m waiting for that way he’s—a damn fool. I asked him for cipher mail.”
“Mr. Jason don’t ever reckon on what those who do the work want. If that feller’s riding despatch, the whole valley will know it.”
McBain’s disgust was no less than that of Fyles. His hard face was coldly set, and the despatch rider, if he were one, seemed likely to get a rough reception.
“He’ll make for the mail office,” said Fyles shortly. “We’ll go and meet him.”
He lifted Peter’s reins, and the horse responded at a jump. In a moment the two men were galloping down to Dy’s office. Fyles was the first out of the saddle, and the two stood waiting in silence for the arrival of the horseman.
There was not much doubt as to the publicity of the man’s arrival. As if by magic a number of men, and as many women, appeared in the vicinity of the saloon, farther down the trail. They, too, had seen the newcomer, and they, too, were consumed with interest, though it was based on quite a different point of view from that of Stanley Fyles and Sergeant McBain.
To them a despatch rider meant important news, and probable action on the part of the authorities. Important action meant, to their minds, something detrimental to the shady side of their village life. Every man was searching his brain for an explanation, a reason for the man’s coming, and every woman, sparing herself mental effort, was asking pointed questions of those who should think for her.