“Yep.”
Bad Bill turned away and began to unsaddle. He did not intend to volunteer any information, though on the other hand he did not want to stir suspicion by making a mystery for gossips to chew on.
“Looks like you been hitting the road at a right lively gait.”
Mac cut in. “Shoulder of my bronc’s chafed from the saddle. Got anything that’ll heal it?”
“You bet I have.” The man hurried into the stable and the redheaded cowpuncher winked across the back of his horse at Bill.
The keeper of the stable and the young man were still busy doctoring the sore when Curly arrived with Warren. The buyer was a roundbodied man with black gimlet eyes that saw much he never told. The bargain he drove was a hard one, but it did not take long to come to terms at about one-third the value of the string he was purchasing. Very likely he had his suspicions, but he did not voice them. No doubt they cut a figure in the price. He let it be understood that he was a supply agent for the rebels in Mexico. Before the bills were warm in the pockets of the sellers, his vaqueros were mounted and were moving the remuda toward the border.
Curly and Mac helped them get started. As they rode back to the corral a young man came out from the stable. Flandrau forgot that there were reasons why he wanted just now to be a stranger in the land with his identity not advertised. He let out a shout.
“Oh you, Slats Davis!”
“Hello, Curly! How are things a-comin’?”
“Fine. When did you blow in to Saguache? Ain’t you off your run some?”