Whispering Smith
horses in a canyon across the creek a few minutes ago, and I saw a ranch-house behind those buttes when I rode around them.”
“Stop! Here’s a man riding right into our jaws,” muttered Kennedy. “Divide up among the rocks.” A horseman from the south came galloping up the creek, and Kennedy rode out with an ivory smile to meet him. The two men parleyed for a moment, disputed each other sharply, and rode together back to the railroad party.
“Haven’t seen any men looking for horses this morning, have you?” asked Whispering Smith, eying the stranger, a squat, square-jawed fellow with a cataract eye.
“I’m looking for horses myself. I ain’t seen anybody else. What are you looking for?”
“Is this your bunch of horses that got loose here?” asked Smith.
“No.”
“I thought,” said Kennedy, smiling, “you said a minute ago they were.”
The stranger fixed his cataract on him like a flash-light. “I changed my mind.”
Whispering Smith’s brows rose protestingly, but he spoke with perfect amiability as he raised his finger to bring the good eye his way. “You ought to change your hat when you change your mind. I saw you driving a bunch of horses up that canyon
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