“Not after that wind we had last night. They might have growed there for all I can see,” growled Mr. Connors. “I reckon we better hold a pow-wow with th' foreman of this shack an' find out what he knows,” suggested Mr. Cassidy. “This looks too good to be a swap.” Mr. Connors looked his disgust at the idea and then a light broke in upon him. “Mebby they was hard pushed an' wanted fresh cayuses,” he said. “A whole lot of people get hard pushed in this country. Anyhow, we'll prospect th' boss.” They found the proprietor in his stocking feet, getting the breakfast, and Mr. Cassidy regarded the preparations with open approval. He counted the tin plates and found only three, and, thinking that there would be more plates if there were others to feed, glanced into the landlord's room. Not finding signs of other guests, on whom to lay the blame for the loss of his horse, he began to ask questions. “Much trade?” He inquired solicitously. “Yep,” replied the landlord. Mr. Cassidy looked at the three tins and wondered if there had ever been any more with which to supply his trade. “Been out this morning?” he pursued. “Nope.” “Talks purty nigh as much as Buck,” thought Mr. Cassidy, and then said aloud, “Anybody else here?” “Nope.” Mr. Cassidy lapsed into a painful and disgusted silence and his friend tried his hand. “Who owns a mosaic bronch, Chinee flag on th' near side, Skillet brand?” asked Mr. Connors. “Quien sabe?” “Gosh, he can nearly keep still in two lingoes,” thought Mr. Cassidy. “Who owns a bob-tailed pinto, saddle-galled, cast in th' near eye, Star Diamond brand, white stockin' on th' off front prop, with a habit of scratchin' itself every other minute?” went on Mr. Connors. “Slim Travennes,” replied the proprietor, flopping a flapjack. Mr. Cassidy reflectively scratched the back of his hand and looked innocent, but his mind was working overtime. “Who's Slim Travennes?” Asked Mr. Connors, never having heard of that person, owing to the reticence of his friend. “Captain of th' vigilantes.” “What does he look like on th' general run?” Blandly inquired Mr. Cassidy, wishing to verify his suspicions. He thought of the trouble he had with Mr. Travennes up in Santa Fe and of the reputation that gentleman possessed. Then the fact that Mr. Travennes was the leader of the local vigilantes came to his assistance and he was sure that the captain had a hand in the change. All these points existed in misty groups in his mind, but the next remark of the landlord caused them to rush together and reveal the plot. “Good,” said the landlord, flopping another flapjack, “and a warnin' to hoss thieves. “Ahem,” coughed Mr. Cassidy and then continued, “is he a tall, lanky, yaller-headed son-of-a-gun, with a big nose an' lots of ears?” “Mebby so,” answered the host.