And as they walked, Joe, under cover of the darkness, eyed his companion with occasional sidelong glances, speculating as to what he wanted with him. He quite understood that his companion was not walking with him for the pleasure of his company. On his part Tresler was wondering how much he ought to tell this man—almost a stranger—of what he had seen. He felt that some one ought to know—some one with more experience than himself. He felt certain that the stealthy visit of the two horsemen was not wholesome. Such espionage pointed to something that was not quite open and aboveboard.
They reached the corrals, and Joe deposited his burden upon the wooden wall. Then he turned sharply on his companion.
“Wal, out wi’ it, man,” he demanded. “Guess you got something you’re wantin’ to git off’n your chest.”
Tresler laughed softly. “You’re pretty sharp, Joe.”
“Pretty sharp, eh?” returned the little man. “Say, it don’t need no razor to cut through the meanin’ of a ‘tenderfoot.’ Wal?”
Tresler was looking up at the saddle. It was a small, almost skeleton saddle, such as, at one time, was largely used in Texas; that was before the heavier and more picturesque Mexican saddles came into vogue among the ranchmen.
“What does Jake want that for?” he asked.
His question was an idle one, and merely put for the sake of gaining time while he arrived at a definite decision upon the other matter.
“Guess it’s fer some feller to ride to-morrow—eh? Whew!”
The choreman broke off and whistled softly. Something had just occurred to him. He measured Tresler with his eye, and then looked at the short-seated saddle with its high cantle and tall, abrupt horn in front. He shook his head.