Billy nodded. "He may. But Marquis is more north than east. That's why I came here first. Anyway, to-morrow morning I'm riding to Marquis, and if he ain't there I'll sift through the country between Marquis and Dorothy. There are several ranches in between those two towns."
"I'll go with you," announced Dawson.
Billy surveyed his neighbor in surprise. "You. What for?"
"For him—exercise—any old thing you like, that is, if it ain't a private party."
"You can sit in if you want to," said Billy slowly, more glad to accept an ally than he cared to admit. "But you've got a job."
"The job can wait. Round up's over, so it won't hurt the ranch to lose my valuable services for a spell. To-morrow we go to Marquis, huh?"
By mid-afternoon the following day Billy Wingo was riding into Marquis from one direction and Dawson was riding in from another. As apparent strangers they believed they could do better work. Before six o'clock Billy had judiciously canvassed every saloon in the place and had learned absolutely nothing. Either Slike had not entered Marquis, or else he was wearing a disguise. In the twilight, in the brush beyond the far-flung skirmishline of empty tin cans and bottles that surrounds every cow-country town, he met his friend Dawson. The latter had worked the stores and the dance hall, but he had nothing to report. The following day Billy journeyed by the one road to Dorothy, while Dawson traveled by a more circuitous route that would take him past two ranch houses where there might be information to be picked up. Billy Wingo, without pushing his horse, reached Dorothy too late for the regular dinner at the hotel. Adjoining the Carnation Saloon was a two-by-four restaurant. He entered the place, sat down at the oilcloth-covered table and gave his order to the good-looking young woman who was evidently cook, hasher and washer combined.
In one corner of the restaurant an eight-year-old girl was squatting on the floor and bathing two wooden dollies in a tin wash-basin. A small dog waggled in from the street, sniffed respectfully at Billy's boots, then hunted along a crack in the floor with his nose till he came within reach of the eight-year-old, who promptly seized him by his short tail and dragged him, ki-yiing his protests, to her bosom.
"You need a bath," said the eight-year-old. "I'll wash you."
Gripping her victim firmly by one ear and his tail she plumped him splash into the washbasin. To the dog's eternal credit he made no attempt to bite her, but he wriggled and squirmed and threw his body about, and ever he lamented loudly.