“They are all in front,” Trawley said, reassuringly when they met; “but we don't want to be seen confabbin' together, to-day of all days.” He jerked his knife toward the yard. “Come out here whar it's quiet.”
With a steady stare of awakening wonder over Sid's unwonted caution Hoag followed, first into the open glare of the sun and then under the roof of a wagon-shed.
“If you hadn't come in, I was goin' to ride out to see you,” Trawley said, with a frown which lay heavily on his sharp-cut features. “I reckon you've heard—bad news travels fast.”
“News? I hain't heard nothin'.” Hoag held the butt of his whip against his lower lip and stared questioningly. “Say, what's up?”
“Enough, God knows—hell's to pay. We've got to git together right away an' take action o' some sort. Say—wait a minute.”
The negro who had been cleaning the buggy was drawing it through the stable toward them, and his master strode angrily to the rear door.
“Leave that buggy thar,” he ordered, “an' go back to the front an' stay till I come.”
With a blank look of astonishment the negro dropped the tongue of the buggy, and turned back to the front. Hoag heard Trawley softly grumbling as he came back.
“I'll break a board over that nigger's head one o' these days,” he growled. “He was try in' to get back here to see what me'n you are up to.”
“Oh, I reckon not—I reckon not,” Hoag said, his gaze anxiously fixed on Trawley's face. “Just now you said somethin' about news.”