Sam eased his fat self into a chair and began to construct a cigarette.
Billy elevated his eyebrows. "Say. I thought I asked you for something to eat?"
Sam ran his tongue along the side of the cigarette. "I heard you, but I don't cook a thing till supper. That's flat. I been in and out of that kitchen all day, and I've got enough, you bet you."
"You don't have to cook anythin' yourself. Let your cook do it."
"I let him go to town for the day."
"I don't s'pose you could persuade one of your boys to throw a li'l bite together for me, now, could you?"
Sam shook a decided head. "I couldn't, Bill. There ain't a boy on the place. I sent them all down on the Wagonjack to fence off a quicksand."
Billy closed his eyes to conceal the satisfaction in their depths. Not a man on the place! Which was just what he had been working to find out. But the odds were still two to one, and an armed two to a weaponless one at that. When Craft returned, they would be three to one, provided Billy still was a prisoner.
He surveyed his captors through drop-lidded eyes. Sam Larder was looking out of the window. But Tip was on the alert, even as he had been from the beginning. And Billy knew well that Tip would not hesitate to shoot. Most decidedly the future did not look bright and shining. But Billy's was a confident nature.
"What's that?" queried Tip.