Mr. Cassidy looked at the three tins and wondered if there had ever been any more with which to supply his trade. "Been out this morning?" he pursued.
"Nope."
"Talks purty nigh as much as Buck," thought Mr. Cassidy, and then said aloud, "Anybody else here?"
"Nope."
Mr. Cassidy lapsed into a painful and disgusted silence and his friend tried his hand.
"Who owns a mosaic bronch, Chinee flag on th' near side, Skillet brand?" asked Mr. Connors.
"Quien sabe?"
"Gosh, he can nearly keep still in two lingoes," thought Mr. Cassidy.
"Who owns a bob-tailed pinto, saddle-galled, cast in th' near eye, Star Diamond brand, white stockin' on th' off front prop, with a habit of scratchin' itself every other minute?" went on Mr. Connors.
"Slim Travennes," replied the proprietor, flopping a flapjack.
Mr. Cassidy reflectively scratched the back of his hand and looked innocent, but his mind was working overtime.
"Who's Slim Travennes?" asked Mr. Connors, never having heard of that person, owing to the reticence of his friend.
"Captain of th' vigilantes."
"What does he look like on th' general run?" blandly inquired Mr. Cassidy, wishing to verify his suspicions. He thought of the trouble he had with Mr. Travennes up in Santa Fé and of the reputation that gentleman possessed. Then the fact that Mr. Travennes was the leader of the local vigilantes came to his assistance and he was sure that the captain had a hand in the change. All these points existed in misty groups in his mind, but the next remark of the landlord caused them to rush together and reveal the plot.
