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It's the stampin'-ground of trouble." Smoke made no reply, and for half an hour they toiled on in silence a silence that was again broken by Shorty. "She's a-workin'," he grumbled. "She's sure a-workin', an' I'll tell you if you're minded to hear an' listen." "Go on," Smoke answered.
Then thar's Huggins's Bird Cage Op'ry House, an' now an' then we-all floats over thar an' takes in the dramy. But mostly we camps about the Red Light; the same bein' a common stampin'-ground. It's thar we find each other; an' when thar's nothin' doin', we upholds the hours tellin' tales an' gossipin' about cattle an' killin's, an' other topics common to a cow country.
"Link, do you know the roads, the trails the desert between here and Agua Prieta?" she asked. "Thet's sure my old stampin'-ground. An' I know Sonora, too." "We must reach Agua Prieta before sunset long before, so if Stewart is in some near-by camp we can get to it in in time." "Miss Majesty, it ain't possible!" he exclaimed. "Stillwell's crazy to say thet."
"Bo," said he, "this place ain't exactly a bed o' roses for a strange guy like you. Y' see, this is Bud's own stampin'-ground, an' the whole bunch is here t'night, and most of 'em are heeled. Soapy an' Bud always tote guns, I know. So I guess you'd better mark time here a bit while I chase around an' locate th' Kid. If any one asks what you're doin' around here, say as you come in with me.
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