At the sight, Hunk shifted the tobacco in his cheek and nervously
crossed his knees, while a grin of ineffable cunning passed across
his face.
With his sombrero in his hand, the Red Rider stepped to the wheel of
the stage. As he did so, Miss Post observed that above the line of
his kerchief his hair was evenly and carefully parted in the middle.
"I'm afraid, ladies," said the road agent, "that I have delayed you
unnecessarily. It seems that I have called up the wrong number." He
emitted a reassuring chuckle, and, fanning himself with his sombrero,
continued speaking in a tone of polite irony: "The Wells, Fargo
messenger is the party I am laying for. He's coming over this trail
with a package of diamonds. That's what I'm after. At first I thought
'Fighting Bob' over there by the rock might have it on him; but he
doesn't act like any Wells, Fargo Express agent I have ever tackled
before, and I guess the laugh's on me. I seem to have been weeping
over the wrong grave." He replaced his sombrero on his head at a
rakish angle, and waved his hand. "Ladies, you are at liberty to
proceed."
But instantly he stepped forward again, and brought his face so close
to the window that they could see the whites of his eyes.
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