“Yeah, but—­”

“Lookit, Swing, we know that when Lanpher spoke of a front yard there in the hotel corral he meant the Bar S range.  Aw right.  While we’re shore Jack Harpe wants to hire us to do his dirty work—­which means being rubbed out by our own friends likely—­would he let us ride for him if he thought the Bar S was paying us to watch him?”

“Not if he knowed what he was doing,” admitted Swing.

“That’s why I got so greasy and confidential with Mister Luke Tweezy.  So Jack Harpe will know.”

“And Luke will tell him?”

“Will Luke tell him?  Luke will run to him a-pantin’.  I’ll gamble Jack Harpe knows the awful worst already.  So we’ll be safe enough to go to Jack to-morrow morning bright and early and tell him we’ve decided to give him the benefit of our services.”

“But I thought we figured not to ride for him,” said the now thoroughly bewildered Swing.

“Of course we ain’t.  In words of one syllable, Swing, I want to find out if it is the Bar S Jack Harpe’s going against.  Well, then, we knowing what we know, and Jack Harpe knowing what we know he knows, if he turns us down to-morrow after offering us the job yesterday, it’ll not only give us the absolute proof we want, but it’ll make him turn his wolf loose P D Q. And that last will be good medicine, because if I’m any judge he ain’t ready to start anything yet awhile, and I notice when a gent ain’t ready and has to jump anyhow he’s a heap likely to fall down and smear himself all over the landscape.”

“The man’s right,” said Swing.  “But it’s the oddest number alla same I ever did see.  All kinds of clues to a crime, and no crime yet.”

“It’ll come,” said Racey Dawson, grimly.  “Jack Harpe is one bad actor.”

“What you got against him—­I mean, anything particular besides yore natural dislike?” Swing Tunstall at times was blessed with flashes of penetrating shrewdness.

“I ain’t got any use for him, thassall.”  Much emphasis on the part of Racey Dawson.

Swing nodded.  “See him at Moccasin Spring?” was his drawled question.

“I didn’t say so.”  Stiffly.

“You didn’t have to.  And you don’t—­not now.  I see it all.  And you yawpin’ out real loud how interested you are in seeing how the Bar S gets a square deal, and letting out only a small peep about old Dale, and thinking yo’re foolin’ Swing to a fare-you-well.  Oh, yeah.  It’s the Dale’s li’l ranch that’s been worrying you alla time.  I know.  Racey’s actually got a girl at last.  I kind of suspicioned it, but I didn’t think it was so heap big serious.  Don’t you fret, Racey, old-timer, I’ll keep yore secret.  Till death does—­Ouch!  Leggo me, you poor hickory!  Yo’re supposed to be sleeping off a drunk, remember!  G’wan now!  Lie down, Fido!  Charge, you bad dog!”

“But lookit,” resumed Swing Tunstall, when the dust of conflict was beginning to settle and he was poking about in the hay in search of three shirt-buttons and his pocket knife, “lookit, Racey, you didn’t say anything to Luke about yore being friendly with this Dale party.  Guess you forgot that, huh?”