“If you like.”
“But I don’t jest see wher’ them hoss thieves figger.”
“Perhaps you don’t, but believe me they do—indirectly.” Tresler paused. Then he went on briskly. “There’s no need to go into details about it, but—but I want to run into this gang. Do you know why? Because I want to find out who this Red Mask is. It is on his personality depends the possibility of my helping the one soul on this ranch who deserves nothing but tender kindness at the hands of those about her.”
“A-men,” Arizona added in the manner he had acquired in his “religion” days.
“I must set her free of Jake—somehow.”
Arizona’s eyes flashed round on him quickly. “Jest so,” he observed complainingly. “That’s how I wanted to do last night.”
“And you’d have upset everything.”
“Wrong—plumb wrong.”
“Perhaps so,” Tresler smiled confidently. “We are all liable to mistakes.”
Arizona’s dissatisfied grunt was unmistakable. “Thet’s jest how that sassafras-colored, bull-beef Joe Nelson got argyfyin’ when Jake come around an’ located him sleepin’ off the night before in the hog-pen. But it don’t go no more’n his did, I guess. Howsum, it’s wimmin. Say, Tresler,” the lean figure leant over toward him, and the wild eyes looked earnestly into his—“it’s right, then—dead right?”