Slowly Overland's hand dropped to his side. He stepped forward, stooped,
and peered into the tent. "Thought so," he said laughing queerly. Save
for a pair of old quilts and an old corduroy coat, the place was empty.
"Fool's luck," muttered Overland. "Wonder the Gophertown outfit didn't
find him and fix him. But come to think of it, they ain't so anxious to
cross over to this side of the range and get too clost to a real town,
and get run in or shot up. Fool's luck," he reiterated, coolly rolling a
cigarette and gazing about with a critical eye. "They's another trail
into this canon that the prospector knowed. I got to find it. Billy'll
be some interested."
CHAPTER XIII
THE RETURN
Overland Red lay concealed in an arroyo at the foot of the range. He
could overlook the desert without being seen. It was the afternoon of
the day following Winthrop's departure.
Since discovering the dead prospector's camp and all that it meant, the
tramp was doubly vigilant. He tried to believe that his anxiety was for
his own safety rather than for Winthrop's. He finally gave up that idea,
grumbling something about becoming "plumb soft in his feelin's since he
took to associatin' with sassiety folks.
Pages:
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135