But Jim only grinned. It was not a pleasant grin, either, for the hardware dealer’s epithet infuriated him.
“Don’t be a blamed fool, Smallbones,” he said sharply. “You’re rattled.”
“Put your darned hands up, or–––!”
But Doc Crombie knocked the little man’s gun up.
“Say, push that back in its kennel,” he cried, harshly. “You sure ain’t safe with a gun.”
Then, after seeing that his comrade obeyed him, and permitting himself a shadowy grin at the man’s crestfallen air, he turned to Jim Thorpe.
“Wal?” he drawled questioningly.
“Thanks, Doc,” said Jim, with a cheery smile. “I guess you saved my life. Smallbones shouldn’t be out without his nurse.” Then he glanced swiftly down at the track he had been examining. “Say, I’ve hit a trail right here. It goes on down to the river, an’ I can’t locate it further. I was just going back on it a piece. Guess you’ve come along in the same direction. See, here it is. A horse galloping hell-for-leather. Guess it’s not a lope. By the splashing of sand, I’d say he was 295 racing.” He looked fearlessly into the doctor’s eyes, but his heart was beating hard with guilty consciousness. He was trying to estimate the man’s possible attitude.
“That’s the trail we’re on,” the doctor said sharply. “Say, how long you been here?” he inquired, glancing at Jim’s horse.
“Well, round about here, getting on for two hours.”