“There,” said Stranleigh, passing over the sheet to the operator, “you show that to our inquisitive friend Ricketts, but don’t send it over the line.”
Stranleigh slept that night at White’s Hotel, and shortly after breakfast next morning the telegraph clerk came across with a very satisfactory telegram from New York. The sender could not positively predict the finding of Armstrong, but anticipated no difficulty in the task.
Stranleigh paid his bill at the hotel, ordered out his horse, and trotted off towards the ranch. He saw no more of Ricketts, who, if on any trail, was following the wrong one.
Dusk had fallen as he was about to emerge into the clearing which in daylight would have afforded him a sight of Armstrong’s house. Suddenly and stealthily he was surrounded by six armed men, and the voice of Jim Dean broke the stillness.
“Good evening, Mr. Stranleigh. I must ask you to get down from your horse.”
“Willingly,” replied the rider. “I confess I have had enough equestrian exercise for one day.”
“We have supper ready for you at the bunk house.”
“Why at the bunk house? I am perfectly satisfied with the fare that Mr. Armstrong’s family provides.”
“We’d like a little conversation with you, and the conversation must take place in private.”