"Oh, I'm doing all right inside," he answered, quietly. "Somebody's
got to attend to this end of the game. And Conniston will be on to the
ropes in a few days. He'll help you make things jump."
Truxton made no answer. For a moment he stood frowning at the floor.
Then he turned once more to Conniston for a short, intent scrutiny.
"You have your blankets ready, Conniston," he said, shortly. "You'll
sleep on a sand-pile to-morrow night."
And he went out, slamming the door behind him.
CHAPTER XIII
At half-past three, Conniston, awakened with a start by the jangle and
clamor of Tommy Garton's little alarm-clock, got up and dressed. At
the lunch-counter the man who had been fidgety yesterday and was
merely sleepy this morning set coffee and flapjacks and bacon before
him. Before four he had saddled his horse, rolled into a neat bundle a
blanket and a couple of quilts from the cot upon which he had slept
last night, tied them behind his saddle, and was ready for the coming
of Bat Truxton. Then Truxton on horseback joined him. Conniston
mounted, acknowledged Truxton's short "Good mornin'," and rode with
him away from the sleeping village and out toward the south.
"Tommy's told you somethin' about what we got ahead of us?" Truxton
asked, when they had ridden half a mile in silence.
"Yes. We went over the whole thing together as well as we could in a
day's time.
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