They were considerably past the hotel, with nothing apparent in the landscape but the string of bunk cars on one hand, a few small scattered houses on the other. There was no wagon to be seen.
Dunham stopped, looking around in suspicious perplexity, which was not a little intensified by the girl removing her hand, which had for some minutes lain lightly on his arm. He had a flashing thought of deceit and treachery and knockout drops, his wad as the objective.
"There's no wagon anywhere around here," he said, his tone severe and accusing.
"No, it isn't here," she agreed, entirely easy and over her whimpering. There was even a little note of mockery in her voice, Bill Dunham believed.
"I don't believe you're hurt a bit," he accused her; seeing her stand unsupported on her own proper legs as well as any sound young lady in Kansas.
"Not a bit," she assured him cheerfully.
"I might 'a' known you was stringin' me when you put up that talk about your stifle bein' out. A girl ain't got no stifle joint."
"How do you know?" she asked, flippantly, boldly, Bill thought.
"Nobody but a four-legged animal's got a stifle joint, and you know it as well as I do," Bill told her, indignant over this anatomical deceit.
"Never mind, Mr. Dunham," she said gently, as serious in a moment as he would have her. She touched his arm with placative hand. "I had to string you along someway till I could get your gun."
