“You’re seventeen kinds of a fool!” snorted Baggs angrily.
Pollock was busy writing in a notebook. He tore out the page, and his eyes were hard as he looked at Nan.
“Let her go to jail, Amos,” he said. “She better take her stuff along, because she’s going to stay a long time.”
“I’ll pack my stuff,” said Nan firmly.
“With us watching you,” declared Baggs. “You’re too slippery, young lady. You’ve given us plenty trouble already. Hurry up; we want to get there before the jail closes for the night.”
Pollock laughed harshly, and then went to help her pack.
CHAPTER XXII: SOMETHING WRONG
Sunday was not a busy day in Lobo Wells. Hashknife and Sleepy were at the livery stable, taking care of their own horses, while the stable-keeper was looking after the rest of the stock. As he led a pair of horses past the stall where Hashknife kept his gray he said to Hashknife:
“I think you lost yore pocket-book last night. I picked one up near yore stall this mornin’. It’s back there on the grain box.”
“All right,” grunted Hashknife, wondering what the man meant. Hashknife never carried a pocket-book in his life.