“No, I ain't seen a thing of him. Shot Billy Faulkner, you say? What in time for?” the rancher was innocently asking.
“You know what for, Hank Speed,” the leader of the posse made sullen answer. “Well, boys, we better be pushing on, I expect.”
Fraser breathed freer when they rode out of sight. He had overslept, and had had a narrow shave; for his pony was grazing in the alfalfa field within a hundred yards of them at that moment. No sooner had the posse gone than Hank Speed stepped across the field without an instant's hesitation and looked the animal over, after which he returned to the house and came out again with a rifle in his hands.
The ranger slid down the farther side of the stack and slipped his revolver from its holster. He watched the ranchman make a tour of the out-buildings very carefully and cautiously, then make a circuit of the haystack at a safe distance. Soon the rancher caught sight of the man crouching against it.
“Oh, you're there, are you? Put up that gun. I ain't going to do you any harm.”
“What's the matter with you putting yours up first?” asked the Texan amiably.
“I tell you I ain't going to hurt you. Soon as I stepped out of the house I seen your horse. All I had to do was to say so, and they would have had you slick.”
“What did you get your gun for, then?”
“I ain't taking any chances till folks' intentions has been declared. You might have let drive at me before I got a show to talk to you.”
“All right. I'll trust you.” Fraser dropped his revolver, and the other came across to him.