“How’s that?”
“By winning the reward for news of Tom Orkney!”
Lon’s expression was crestfallen. “Of all the chuckleheads!” he groaned. “And I didn’t tumble! I guess I’m jest a one-idea-at-a-time feller. But that one idea that I’d got Groche dead to rights on the stealin’ seemed big as a mountain—hid everything else. But I’ll bet you’re right! Groche spotted the kid up in one o’ them camps on Payne Stream, and came back to collect easy money——”
“Sure he didn’t get it?” Sam broke in.
“Yep! I scared him off. You see, ’twas a mite livelier’n I let on jest now. And what between me ’n’ Hannibal and that wrench—reckon I was wavin’ it sort o’ free and vi’lent—and the risk o’ bein’ arrested—wal, I guess Groche was glad to go while the goin’ was good. Then, too, he may ’a’ figgered he could come back to pick the plum when things had quieted down—see?”
Sam nodded. Lon was no braggart; no doubt the brush with Groche had been very nearly a full-sized fight.
“Wal, what’ll you do now?” Lon queried curiously. “Say! That hundred’d come in pooty handy, eh?”
“Oh, I couldn’t take it!” Sam said quickly. “That doesn’t mean, though——”
There he checked himself; wheeled; and strode toward the house. His brain was working actively; a plan was taking shape, a plan hard to execute, perhaps, yet not impossible. And if it could be carried out, it might go far toward wiping out the balance against the Safety First Club in the matter of Tom Orkney.
Sometimes Fortune comes to meet those who seek her favors. No sooner had Sam set foot in the house than he realized that there was an unusual air of excitement in the normally tranquil establishment. Nor had he long to wait for enlightenment.