"The old boy's
worried. Damned if he isn't! I'll keep an eye on this Bard feller."
And he loosened the revolver in its holster.
He might have been even more concerned had he seen the redoubled speed
with which Drew galloped as soon as the hilltop was between him and
Logan. Straight on he pushed his horse, not exactly like one who fled
but rather more like one too busy with consuming thoughts to pay the
slightest heed to the welfare of his mount. It was a spent horse on
which he trotted late that night up to the big, yawning door of his
barn.
"Where's Nash?" he asked of the man who took his horse.
"Playing a game with the boys in the bunk-house, sir."
So past the bunk-house Drew went on his way to his dwelling, knocked,
and threw open the door. Inside, a dozen men, seated at or standing
around a table, looked up.
"Nash!"
"Here."
"On the jump, Nash. I'm in a hurry."
There rose a man of a build much prized in pugilistic circles. In those
same circles he would have been described as a fellow with a fighting
face and a heavy-weight above the hips and a light-weight below--a
handsome fellow, except that his eyes were a little too small and his
lips a trifle too thin.
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