It was the man who had carried the note to Molly Hartwell.
“’Sall right, boss,” he said. “Scraped the bone and took away a little meat. Got her bandaged tight and can’t use it, but it’ll be all right pretty soon.”
“Want some coffee, Mac?” asked Shorty.
“Yeah, I’ll drink a cup, Shorty.”
As the little cook bustled away after a tin cup, another man came in out of the night, leaned his rifle against the side of a tent and came over to the fire. It was Steen, the foreman.
“Well, what do yuh know, Steen?” asked King.
“Not much, boss. They held an inquest at the Arrow tonight. There were two strange cowpunchers there, and somebody passed the word that they were spies for you. They got away. Jack Hartwell and Molly are in danger right now.”
Shorty came back, carrying several cups, which he filled and passed two of them to Steen and the one called Mac.
“They’re sure that either Jack or Molly are spies,” said Steen. “And that’s about all I can find out, except that we’ll have to wait a while longer. The cattlemen don’t sabe us, and they’re watchin’ the line pretty close. We might make a bluff to get through on the west end tomorrow.”
King did not reply to Steen’s suggestion. The foreman placed his cup on the ground and squatted on his heels while he rolled a cigaret. Then: