"Go over to the wagon and turn your horse out," he directed. "You'll find an old Mexican feller there; he'll give you something to eat if you're hungry. I'll be along direc'ly and we'll talk it over."
"I don't care anything about pay—I'll help you drive your cattle to Pawnee Bend without a damn cent of pay!" Bill declared passionately. "There's something between me and that man Moore wider than the Cimarron."
"We'll talk it over later on," Hughes replied.
He rode away, leaving Bill to go to the wagon as directed, or to any other place that might suit his inclination better.
Bill spent the rest of the afternoon at the wagon, making indifferent headway with the Mexican cook, whose English vocabulary was not wide, such as he was master of being altogether too emphatic and passionate for a man of Bill Dunham's disposition. Hughes did not come to the wagon until nearly sundown, after the cook had sounded a long blast on a conch-shell. He was accompanied by a young man of about Dunham's age, whom he introduced as his son.
Young Hughes was an alert, lithe man, fresh and boyish in appearance. He was shingled and shaved in striking contrast with the other men of the outfit who began to ride in for supper. He shook hands with Dunham, but with something of reserve in his manner, in the expression of his eyes, not in keeping with the ingenuous frankness that Dunham believed naturally was his. They had discussed the presence of this stranger in their camp, Bill knew. Suspicion attached
