"Pr'aps you've an idea as he'd bin wiser ter discuss the biz in the public saloon at Hickory Crossing, with a crowd of ranchers an' cowpunchers, and maybe one of the Mounted P'lice fer audience?" he suggested. "But Jim Derrick ain't that sort. He ain't no novice tenderfoot ter let any trampoosin' stranger know what cards he holds. And I reckon he holds a straight flush this game, see?"
"Um!" muttered Hen.
The two men dismounted and hobbled their ponies.
"We'll wait here till he gives a sign," said Bill, taking out his pipe.
They lay in the grass, smoking, with their eyes directed towards the dark shape of the dilapidated, deserted log cabin, which was their appointed meeting-place. After a long time of waiting, Bill Allison's broncho threw up its head and stood alert with twitching ears.
"Reckon Jim's thar now," decided Bill. "Yes, he's strikin' a light, see! Leave the ponies where they are."
He stood up and led the way across the coulee. Red Derrick met them at the ruined doorway.
"Yo're punctual, boys," he said. "Thought I heard you comin' t'other way. Everythin' all right?"