Crosby's scowl relaxed, and, reseating himself at the table, he
rolled a cigarette. "Now, if he pulls it off," he whispered, "and
gets back to quarters, then--it's a case of all's well. But, if he's
shot, or caught, and it all comes out, then it's up to us to prove he
meant it as a practical joke."
"It isn't our duty to report it now, is it?" asked Curtis, nervously.
"Certainly not! If he chooses to make an ass of himself, that's none
of our business. Unless he's found out, we have heard nothing and
seen nothing. If he's caught, then we've got to stick by him, and
testify that he did it on a bet. He'll probably win out all right.
There is nobody expected on the stage but that Miss Post and her
aunt. And the driver's an old hand. He knows better than to fight."
"There may be some cowboys coming up."
"That's Ranson's lookout. As Cahill says, the Red Rider takes his
chances."
"I wish there was something we could do now," Curtis protested,
petulantly. "I suppose we've just got to sit still and wait for him?"
"That's all," answered Crosby, and then leaped to his feet. "What's
that?" he asked. Out on the parade ground, a bugle-call broke
suddenly on the soft spring air.
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