“Thought Sun was raised back East?” said Shoop, again sitting up.

Corliss smiled.  “Better give it up, Bud.”

“Oh, very well!” said Shoop, mimicking a grande dame who had once stopped at Antelope in search for local color.  “Anyhow, you got to set a Mexican to catch a Mexican when he’s hidin’ out with Mexicans.”  With this bit of advice, Shoop again relapsed to silence.

“Going back to the Concho to-morrow?” queried Banks.

“No.  Got a little business in town.”

“I heard Loring was due here to-morrow.”  The sheriff stated this casually, yet with intent.  “I was talking with Art Kennedy ’bout two hours ago—­”

“Kennedy the land-shark?” queried Shoop.

“The same.  He said something about expecting Loring.”

Bud Shoop had never aspired to the distinction of being called a diplomat, but he had an active and an aggressive mind.  With the instinct for seizing the main chance by its time-honored forelock, he rose swiftly.  “By Gravy, Jack!  I gone and left them things in the buckboard!”

“Oh, they’ll be all right,” said Corliss easily.  Then he caught his foreman’s eye and read its meaning.  His nod to Shoop was all but imperceptible.

“I dunno, Jack.  I’d hate to lose them notes.”

“Notes?” And the sheriff grinned.  “Writing a song or starting a bank, Bud?”

“Song.  I was composin’ it to Jack, drivin’ in.”  And the genial Bud grabbed his hat and swept out of the room.

Long before he returned, Sheriff Jim had departed puzzling over the foreman’s sudden exit until he came opposite “The Last Chance” saloon.  There he had an instant glimpse of Bud and the one known as Kennedy leaning against the bar and conversing with much gusto.  Then the swing-door dropped into place.  The sheriff smiled and putting two and two together found that they made four, as is usually the case.  He had wanted to let Corliss know that Loring was coming to Antelope and to let him know casually, and glean from the knowledge anything that might be of value.  Sheriff Banks knew a great deal more about the affairs of the distant ranchers than he was ordinarily given credit for.  He had long wondered why Corliss had not taken up the water-hole homestead.

Corliss was in bed when Shoop swaggered in.  The foreman did a few steps of a jig, flung his hat in the corner, and proceeded to undress.

“Did you see Kennedy?” yawned Corliss.

“Bet your whiskers I did!  Got the descriptions in my pocket.  You owe me the price of seven drinks, Jack, to say nothin’ of what I took myself.  Caught him at ‘The Last Chance’ and let on I was the pore lonely cowboy with a sufferin’ thirst.  Filled him up with ‘Look-out-I’m-Comin’’ and landed him at his shack, where he dug up them ole water-hole descriptions, me helpin’ promiscus.  He kind o’ bucked when I ast him for them papers.  Said he only had one copy that he was holdin’