The Swede dropped the bar.
“The little man who stays with Hans Becher?”
The questioner nodded.
“Yes, a half-hour ago.” The boy-man understood now. “He stopped at my house, and––”
“Which direction did he go?”
Ole stepped outside, his arm stretched over the prairie, white now in the moonlight.
“That way,” he indicated. “East.”
As there had been quiescence before, now there was action. No charge of cavalry was ever more swift than their sudden departure.
“East, toward Schooner’s ranch,” was called and repeated as they made their way back to the 236 road; and, following, the wiry little bronchos groaned in unison as the back cinch to each one of the heavy saddles, was, with one accord, drawn tight. Then, widening out upon the reflected whiteness of prairie, there spread a great black crescent. A moment later came silence, broken only by the quivering call of a lone coyote.
Ole watched them out of sight, then turned back to the door; the mood of the heroic passed, once more the timid, retiring Swede. But now he was not alone. Bud Evans was quietly working over the body on the floor, laying it out decently as the quick ever lay out the dead.