“I stumbled over the step,” the beaten man snarled.
“Sure. I had all the luck.”
“Looked to me like you were making yore own luck, kid,” Bad Bill differed.
The paroled convict went into the house, swearing to get even. His face was livid with fury.
“You wouldn’t think a little thing like a whaling given fair and square would make a man hold a grudge. My system has absorbed se-ve-real without doing it any harm.” Sam stooped to inspect a rapidly discoloring eye. “Say, Curly, he hung a peach of a lamp on you.”
Soapy made no comment in words, but he looked at Flandrau with a new respect. For the first time a doubt as to the wisdom of letting him stay at the ranch crossed his mind.
His suspicion was justified. Curly had been living on the edge of a secret for weeks. Mystery was in the air. More than once he had turned a corner to find the other four whispering over something. The group had disintegrated at once with a casual indifference that did not deceive. Occasionally a man had ridden into the yard late at night for private talk with Stone, and Curly was morally certain that the man was the little cowpuncher Dutch of the Circle C.
Through it all Curly wore a manner of open confidence. The furtive whisperings did not appear to arouse his curiosity, nor did he intercept any of the knowing looks that sometimes were exchanged. But all the time his brain was busy with questions. What were they up to? What was it they had planned?
Stone and Blackwell rode away one morning. To Curly the word was given that they were going to Mesa. Four days later Soapy returned alone. Lute had found a job, he said.
“That a paper sticking out of your pocket?” Flandrau asked.