He flung himself away pettishly, and started off alone.  Hugh never had any difficulty about direction.  In a locality with which he was familiar he would walk about with the utmost confidence.  Occasionally he would stop, rap his leg sharply with one hand, listen a moment, and then, apparently satisfied, walk on.  Those who pressed him for an explanation of this merely received the vague and unilluminating reply that he could feel the earth that way and tell from the sound of it, probably meaning the vibration, just where he was.

Pearl and Flick followed him in a more leisurely way, although no word was spoken between them until they reached home.  Pearl’s eyes scanned the house, but it was evident that Hanson had gone, for her mother sat in a rocking-chair before the window, her head tilted back, fast asleep.

“What do you suppose your Pop’ll say to your signing up with Hanson?” asked Flick, as they passed through the gate.

“I suppose we’ll have a row that’ll make the house rock,” she answered indifferently, dismissing him with a nod.

CHAPTER V

Hanson had learned of Flick’s return to Paloma almost as soon as the Pearl, although from a different source; Jimmy, the bar-keeper, having informed him of the fact.  He had sauntered into Chickasaw Pete’s place as was his wont, soon after breakfast on the same morning that Pearl had walked in the mesquite alleys with Flick.  This he selected as the most agreeable place in which he could while away the time until a suitable hour for either seeking Pearl, or else hastening to keep an appointment with her.  And Jimmy, with the same instinct that a squirrel hides nuts, hoarded such chance bits of gossip as came his way and brought them out one by one for the delectation of those with whom he conversed.

“Hello, Paloma Morning Journal!” called Hanson as he entered the door, his large, genial presence radiating optimism and good cheer.  “How many big black headlines this morning?”

Jimmy’s smile made creases in his round, red cheeks above his white linen jacket.  “Pretty shy of headlines,” he chuckled.  “Nothing but a few personals.”

“No murders, no lynchings, nor merry cowboys on bucking broncos shooting up the town?” exclaimed Hanson, in affected dismay.  “My!  My!  What is the West coming to?  I’m afraid you ain’t serving them the right kind of poison, Jimmy.”

“It’s so bad I won’t touch it myself.”  Jimmy defended himself with professional pride.  “Have some?”

“Not I. I got to be going, anyway.”

Seeing that Hanson was about to follow this intention, Jimmy drew forth his first nut.  “Bob Flick got back last night,” he said, and then, abashed by the meagerness of this bit of information, attempted to enhance its value.  “I’d like to know,” leaning his elbow on the bar and his chin in his hand, “I’d like to know where he went and what he went for.”