Harlan's thick neck grew crimson and his eyes hard. "Looking fer
something?" he asked with bitter sarcasm, his hands under the bar.
Johnny grinned hopefully and a sudden tenseness took possession of him
as he watched for the first hostile move.
"Yes," Hopalong replied coolly, appraising Harlan's attitude and look in
one swift glance, "but it ain't here, now. Johnny, get out," he ordered,
backing after his companion, and safely outside, the two walked towards
Jackson's store, Johnny complaining about the little time spent in the
Oasis.
As they entered the store they saw Edwards, whose eye asked a question.
"No; he ain't in there yet," Hopalong replied.
"Did you look all over? Behind the bar?" Edwards asked, slowly. "He
can't get out of town through that cordon you've got strung around it,
an' he ain't nowhere else. Leastwise, I couldn't find him."
"Come on back!" excitedly exclaimed Johnny, turning towards the door.
"You didn't look behind the bar! Come on--bet you ten dollars that's
where he is!"
"Mebby yo're right, Kid," replied Hopalong, and the marshal's nodding
head decided it.
In the saloon there was strong language, and Jack Quinn, expert skinner
of other men's cows, looked inquiringly at the proprietor. "What's up
now, Harlan?"
The proprietor laughed harshly but said nothing--taciturnity was his one
redeeming trait.
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