Jed Warren shook his head emphatically.
“Then he didn’t get it straight, Bob. I can see you’ve got some interesting things to tell me, so I’ll make short work o’ this here tale of mine.”
“I have,” laughed Bob.
“Of course I knew a lot of ranchmen an’ cowpunchers. Some of ’em used to hang around the Cree village; an’ I kind of thought that a feller named Hank Styles an’ some of his men seemed to be takin’ things purty easy.”
“So he was the ringleader, eh?” inquired Bob.
“He sartinly were. Honest, Bob, I hate to admit it, but I never suspicioned him. He seemed always so friendly, an’ sayin’ a smart young chap like me was bound to git ahead; an’, somehow, that kind o’ dope got me, Bob.”
Jed Warren paused. His eyes flashed as he began again:
“Several times, in passin’ that way, I stopped in to have a friendly chat with Styles. He treated me fine. Nothin’, he said, was too good for a trooper of the Northwest Mounted. I fell for that, too, Bob.” Warren’s tone became sorrowful.
“What a sly old duffer!” exclaimed Bob.
“Yes! An’ all the time I was askin’ myself why them thar fellers didn’t fix up the ranch-house, an’ make it a comfortable place to live in. I talked to Hank about it, an’ he laughed. ‘We’re out here for the dough, Warren,’ he says; ‘it ain’t worth while to take the time an’ trouble.’ Even that didn’t open me eyes.”