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Oh, you've sure earned yore laugh." If hatred could have killed with a look Bob would have been a dead man. "You blew up the dam," charged Doble. "Me! Why, it ain't my dam. Didn't Brad give you orders to open the sluices to make you a swimmin' hole?" The searchers began to straggle in, bringing with them a sadly drenched and battered lot of gunmen.
One of 'em's a big fat guy name o' Miller kinda rolls when he walks. Other's small and has a glass eye. Called himself George Doble when I knew him." "Come in here 'most every day both of 'em. Waitin' for the Festival of Mountain and Plain to open up. Got some kinda concession. They look to yours truly like " The bartender pulled himself up short and began polishing the top of the bar vigorously.
He drew Sanders to one side. "Trouble to-night, Dave, looks like. At Jackpot Number Three. We're in a layer of soft shale just above the oil-bearin' sand. Soon we'll know where we're at. Word has reached me that Doble means to rush the night tower and wreck the engine." "You'll stand his crowd off?" "You're whistlin'." "Sure your information is right?" "It's c'rect."
I and all Soldiers els that strike with their armes, And draw from them the meanes of life and honour, Are doble tyde in faith to observe their pleasures. Col. A Prince of rare humanitie and temper. Sir, as you teach us armes, you man our minds, too, With civill precepts, making us true Soldiers, Then worthie to receive a trust from others When we stand masters of our owne discretions.
Doble nodded carelessly to him without recognition. It was characteristic of his audacity that Dug had walked over impudently to spy out the camp of the enemy. Bob knew why he had come, and he knew that Bob knew. Yet both ignored the fact that he was not welcome. "I've known fellows angle a right long time for a trout and not catch him," said Doble, stretching his long legs comfortably.
Was it reasonable to suppose that some one else had been camping close to them? This was possible, but not likely. For they would probably have seen signs of the other evening camp-fire. Eliminating this possibility, there remained Dug Doble. Had Dug fired the brush while his companion was saddling for the start?
The men were George Doble and a cowpuncher known as Shorty, a broad, heavy-set little man who worked for Bradley Steelman, owner of the Rocking Horse Ranch, what time he was not engaged on nefarious business of his own. He was wearing a Chihuahua hat and leather chaps with silver conchas. At this moment Hop Lee arrived with dinner. Dave sighed as he grinned at his friend.
No fire had been in evidence when they left the camping-ground, and he was sure he had stamped out the one that had cooked the biscuits. Yet that stringy gray film certainly looked like smoke. He hung in the wind, half of a mind to go back and make sure. Fire in the chaparral now might do untold damage. Shorty looked at Doble. "If tha's fire, Dug " "It ain't. No chance," snapped the ex-foreman.
If Doble isn't a killer, I've never met one." "I've got a fool notion that he ain't aimin' to kill him; that maybe he wants to help Steelman bust him so as he can turn the screws on him and get Miss Joyce. Dug must 'a' been makin' money fast in Brad's company. He's on the inside." Dave made no comment.
The little boy was wrought to enthusiasm by this tribute, resolving always to remember to say "hoss" for horse; and, though he had not heard of Budd Doble before, the name was magnetic for him. After you said it over several times he thought it made you feel as if you had a cold in your head.
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