CHAPTER XI
AT THE THREE HORSES
CLEAN them out of the Rocky Mountains; that is a pretty good contract,” mused the man in McCloud’s office on Sunday morning. He sat opposite McCloud in Bucks’s old easy chair and held in his hand Bucks’s telegram. As he spoke he raised his eyebrows and settled back, but the unusual depth of the chair and the shortness of his legs left his chin helpless in his black tie, so that he was really no better off except that he had changed one position of discomfort for another. “I wonder, now,” he mused, sitting forward again as McCloud watched him, “I wonder—you know, George, the Andes are, strictly speaking, a part of the great North American chain—whether Bucks meant to include the South American ranges in that message?” and a look of mildly good-natured anticipation overspread his face.
“Suppose you wire him and find out,” suggested McCloud.
“No, George, no! Bucks never was accurate in geographical expressions. Besides, he is shifty
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