“Any news, colonel?” asked the farmer, as he called himself.  Really he was in league with the band of which Warner was the chief.

“No,” answered the Colonel, gloomily.  “No, worse luck!  There might have been, but for an unfortunate circumstance.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s plenty of good money in that stage coach and Brown and I meant to have it, but some sharp-eared rascal heard us arranging the details of the plan, and that spoiled it.”

“Is it too late now?” asked the farmer, eagerly.  “We can follow them, and overtake them yet, if you say so.”

“And be shot for our pains.  No, thank you.  They are all on the alert, and all have their six-shooters in readiness.  No, we must postpone our plan.  There’s one of the fellows that I mean to be revenged upon yet—­the one that ferreted out our secret plan.  I must bide my time, but I shall keep track of him.”

Soon the Colonel, well-mounted, was on his way back to the rude inn where he had slept the night before.

Dismounting he entered without ceremony, and his eyes fell upon the landlord’s wife, engaged in some household employment.

“Where’s Brown?” he asked, abruptly.

“Somewheres round,” was the reply.

“How long has he been home?”

“A matter of two hours.  He came home awfully riled, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was about.  What’s happened?”

“We’ve met with a disappointment—­that’s what’s the matter.”

“Did the passengers get the better of you?” asked the woman, for she was in her husband’s guilty secrets, and knew quite well what manner of man she had married.

“They found out our little game,” answered Warner, shortly, for he did not see any advantage in wasting words on his confederate’s wife.  “Which way did Brown go?”

“Yonder,” answered Mrs. Brown, pointing in a particular direction.

Col.  Warner tied his horse to a small sapling, and walked in the direction indicated.

He found the landlord sullenly reclining beneath a large tree.

“So you’re back?” he said, surveying Warner with a lowering brow.

“Yes.”

“And a pretty mess you’ve made of the job!” said the landlord, bitterly.

“It’s as much your fault—­nay, more!” said his superior, coolly.

“What do you mean?” demanded Brown, not over cordially.

“You would persist in discussing our plan last night in my room, though I warned you we might be overheard.”

“Well?”

“We were overheard.”

“What spy listened to our talk?”

“The young man, Melville—­the one traveling with a boy.  He kept it to himself till the stage was well on its way, and then he blabbed the whole thing to all in the stage.”

“Did he mention you?”

“Yes, and you.”

“Why didn’t you tell him he lied, and shoot him on the spot?”

“Because I shouldn’t have survived him five minutes,” answered the colonel, coolly, “or, if I had, his companions would have lynched me.”