“Scipio––and yours?”
In the dying light the man’s saturnine features seemed to relax for a moment into something like a smile. But he spoke at once.
“Come right over,” he invited. “Guess my name’s Abe––Abe Conroy. I’m out chasin’ cattle.” And the fact that he finished up with a deliberate laugh had no meaning at all for his companion.
Scipio gladly accepted the invitation, and, in response to the man’s instructions, moved farther along the stream until he came to a shelving in the bank where his mare could climb down. He crossed over, letting his horse drink by the way, and a few moments later was at his new acquaintance’s side.
The stranger’s mood seemed to have entirely changed for the better by the time Scipio came up. His smile was almost amiable, and his manner of speech was comparatively jocular.
“So you’re chasin’ that crook, James,” he said easily. “Queer, ain’t it?”
“What?”
“Why, he’s run off a bunch of our stock. Leastways, that’s how I’m guessin’. I’m makin’ up to his place right now to spy out things. I was jest waitin’ fer the sun to go. Y’see we’re organizin’ a vigilance party to run––Say, I’d a notion fer a moment you was one of his gang.”
But Scipio disclaimed the honor promptly.
“No. I just need to find him. I’m needin’ it bad.”