“How far is id to Lost Hills?”
“About twenty miles north of here.”
“Thang yuh.”
The man with the pneumonia complex went out into the night and approached a hitch-rack, where several riding horse-were tied. After looking them over he selected a tall sorrel. Loosening the cinch, he removed the blanket, mounted and rode north, wearing the blanket around his shoulders, holding it tightly around his throat. He sneezed several limes, as though bidding Salt Wells good-by, and faded away in the darkness.
Amos Weed was not to be caught napping. There were not many strangers ever seen in Lost Hills, but Amos spotted one that night. He was rather tall, slender, but was not dressed conspicuously. Amos dogged him from place to place, wondering if this could possibly be Cloudy McGee.
The stranger went from game to game in the War Path saloon, showing only a mild interest in the gambling. He picked up a billiard cue and spent an hour or so knocking the balls about the old pool table, paying no attention to anyone, while Amos humped in a chair, watching him closely.
He followed the stranger to the Chinese restaurant and watched him. This man wore no gun in sight. He seemed of a serious disposition, ate heartily, which was something Amos had been unable to do since he had heard of the well failure. He knew it must be a failure, when they did not strike oil within the four thousand foot depth.
The stranger left the restaurant and sauntered around the street, with Amos following him at a distance. Miles Rooney was getting out his weekly edition, and several interested folks were watching the flat printing press through the Clarion window. The stranger stopped and watched the operation.
Amos came in beside him, also watching the operation.
“Pretty slick, the way it prints ’em, eh?” said the cashier. The stranger nodded.