“Red Pearce has cashed, an' he can't talk for himself,” said Beady Jones, as if answering to the unspoken thought of all.
“Men, between you and me, I had more queer notions about Pearce than Cleve,” announced Gulden, gruffly. “But I never said so because I had no proof.”
“Red shore was sore an' strange lately,” added Chick Williams. “Me an' him were pretty thick once—but not lately.”
The giant Gulden scratched his head and swore. Probably he had no sense of justice and was merely puzzled.
“We're wastin' a lot of time,” put in Beard, anxiously. “Don't fergit there's somethin' comin' off down in camp, an' we ain't sure what.”
“Bah! Haven't we heard whispers of vigilantes for a week?” queried Gulden.
Then some one of the men looked out of the door and suddenly whistled.
“Who's thet on a hoss?”
Gulden's gang crowded to the door.
“Thet's Handy Oliver.”