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It is not that we do not own one, a rigid box of that name has belonged to us now for many a year; and when Sudleigh came out with a new one, plumes, trappings, and all, we broached the idea of emulating her. But the project fell through after Brad Freeman's contented remark that he guessed the old one would last us out. He "never heard no complaint from anybody 't ever rode in it."
It had once been said of the Widder Poll that if she could hold her tongue, the devil himself couldn't get ahead of her. But fortune had not gifted her with such endurance, and she always spoke too often and too soon. "Brad Freeman's been up here," she continued, eying Heman, as she drew out the supper-table and put up the leaves.
Keller; but this outfit doesn't run any information bureau," answered the heavy-set, sullen fellow who had been called Brad. There were four of them, all masked; but the ranger was sure of one of them, if not two. The first speaker had been Tom Dixon; the last one was Brad Irwin, a rider belonging to the Twin Star outfit. They helped the bound man to his horse and held a low-voiced consultation.
Nine or ten riders had come out of the darkness and were approaching the camping-ground. West was in the lead. Morse recognized Barney and Brad Stearns. Two of the others were half-breeds, one an Indian trailer of the Piegan tribe. "He must 'a' heard us comin' and pulled out," Barney said. "Then he's back in the red rocks," boomed West triumphantly. "Soon find out."
Brad asked arfter you." "I suppose so," said David impatiently. "But, tell me, Joey, what is his game? What is he in New York for?" The old clown did not answer at once. He pursed his lips and stared in a troubled sort of way at the leg of David's chair. Then he began to fill his pipe. His hand trembled noticeably.
The rain now fell in sheets. "Hurry up 'n' git under cover, Jabe," said Brad Gibson; "you're jest the kind of a pole to draw lightnin'!" "You hain't, then!" retorted Jabe. "There ain't enough o' you fer lightnin' to ketch holt of!" Suddenly a ghastly streak of light leaped out of a cloud, and then another, till the sky seemed lit up by cataracts of flame.
"Does that go to the right spot with you? Do you want to see a clock-face starin' over Tiverton, like a full moon, chargin' ye to keep Old War-Wool Eaton in memory?" "Well, no," replied Eli gently, "I dunno's I do, an' I dunno but I do." "Might set a lantern back' o' the dial, an' take turns lightin' on 't," suggested Brad Freeman.
It seemed, then, that Brad had always cherished one dear ambition. He would fain fashion an elephant; and having never heard of Frankenstein, he lacked anticipation of the dramatic finale likely to attend a meddling with the creative powers.
"Must of slipped his hands out of the cuffs, looks like," the guard suggested. "He got me to give him a bigger size complained they chafed his wrists." "Some trick that, if he has got kid hands." The chill eyes of Goodheart gimleted into those of his assistant. "Did you do this, Brad? God help you if you did." A light step sounded on the threshold. Pauline came into the room.
Jabe Slocum and Brad Gibson lay extended slouchingly, their cowhide boots turned up to the sky; Dave Milliken, Steve Webster, and the others leaned back against the tree-trunk, smoking clay pipes, or hugging their knees and chewing blades of grass reflectively. One man sat apart from the rest, gloomily puffing rings of smoke into the air.
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