“Roarin’ ain’t home, eh?”
“No-o-o-o, he ain’t exactly home jist now; he’s out.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Well, he didn’t leave no address,” grinned Wind River. “Didn’t say nothin’ much. He ain’t much of a hand to talk. Pers’nally I think he went huntin’ bear.”
“Bear!” blurted Clayton.
“Prob’ly.” Wind River spat across the sidewalk. “Anyway, I’d say he was heeled for bear. Took a thirty-thirty and a full belt of shells along, and he went out that back door like somethin’ was bitin’ his heels.”
“By golly, I told Slim!” snorted Pitts and, without waiting for any more information, they started on a run for the Black Horse Saloon.
“Well, that’s shore queer,” observed Wind River. “Jist like I’d touched a match to ’em.”
Pitts and Clayton ran to the doorway of the saloon, where they met Regan and Moran, who were coming out.
“Gone!” exclaimed Pitts. “Took a thirty-thirty along. He’s gone out to the Hot Creek ranch.”