They came back to the sunlight and mounted their horses.
“Somebody’s been here lately,” decided Hashknife. “And that person ate canned beans, smoked cigarettes, and rode my horse. If Kid Glover stole my horse, and still rides him, he came back from Welcome instead of keeping on goin’.”
“He’d probably know about this dugout,” said Chuck. “The Kid was here quite a while, and lots of the Reimer stock range through here. I wish I knew why he stole yore horse, Hashknife. He probably don’t know whose horse he got, and I don’t think it would make any difference to him if he did. The Kid shore is a cold-blooded person, and if he’s got any conscience at all, I’m an evangelist.”
“Let’s ride over to the Half-Box R,” suggested Hashknife. “Butch Reimer might have some word of Glover.”
“He wouldn’t give the Kid away, Hashknife. But we’ll ride over, anyway. Yuh never can tell.”
But they were spared the ride. As they struck the road below the bridge they met Reimer and Blackwell, traveling toward town.
“Hyah, cowboys,” grunted Butch. “What do yuh know?”
“Not much,” smiled Hashknife. “Ain’t seen anythin’ of Kid Glover, have yuh?”
A queer expression flashed across Butch’s eyes as he looked quickly at Hashknife.
“Haven’t seen him; have you, Hartley?”