“I see the Sentinel hints that Mr. Curly Flandrau had better be lynched,” he jeered.
“The Sentinel don’t always hit the bull’s-eye, Soapy,” returned the young man evenly. “It thinks I belong to the Soapy Stone outfit, but we know I haven’t that honor.”
“There’s no such outfit—not in the sense he means,” snapped the man on the lounge. “What are your plans? Where you going to lie low? Picked a spot yet?”
“I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m on the way,” Curly assured him gaily.
Soapy frowned at him under the heavy eyebrows that gave him so menacing an effect.
“Better come back with me to the ranch till you look around.”
“Suits me right down to the ground if it does you.”
Someone came whistling into the house and opened the door of the room. He was a big lank fellow with a shotgun in his hands. “From Missouri” was stamped all over his awkward frame. He stood staring at his unexpected guests. His eyes, clashing with those of Stone, grew chill and hard.
“So you’re back here again, are you?” he asked, looking pretty black.
Stone’s lip smile mocked him. “I don’t know how you guessed it, but I sure am here.”