“A feller hadn’t ought to be so promiscuous with his hardware. This here thing of shooting up citizens don’t do Wyoming no good these days. Capital ain’t a-going to come in when such goings-on occur,” he sagely opined, unconsciously parroting the sentiment Burns had just been instilling into him.
“That’s right, sir. If that ain’t horse sense I don’t know any. You got a head on you, all right,” answered the admiring sheriff.
The flattered Reddy pleaded guilty to being wiser than most men. “Jest because I punch cows ain’t any reason why I’m anybody’s fool. I’ll show them smart boys at the Lazy D I don’t have to take the dust of any of the bunch when it comes to using my think tank.”
“I would,” sympathized Burns. “You bet they’ll all be almighty jealous when they learn how you was chosen out of the whole outfit on this job.”
All day they rode, and that night camped a few miles from the Lazy D. Early next morning they hailed a solitary rider as he passed. The man turned out to be a cowman, with a small ranch not far from the one owned by Miss Messiter.
“Hello, Henderson! y’u seen anything of Jim McWilliams and another fellow riding acrost this way?” asked Reddy.
“Nope,” answered the cowman promptly. But immediately he modified his statement to add that he had seen two men riding toward Dry Creek a couple of hours ago. “They was going kinder slow. Looked to me sorter like one of them was hurt and the other was helping him out,” he volunteered.
The sheriff looked significantly at one of his men and nodded.
“You didn’t recognize the horses, I reckon?”
“Come to think of it, one of the ponies did look like Jim’s roan. What’s up, boys? Anything doing?”