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.
"Urn, slopping over into bad Sioux," thought Mr. Cassidy, and then
said aloud, "How long has he hung around this here layout?" At the
same time passing a warning glance at his companion.
The landlord straightened up. "Look here, stranger, if yu hankers
after his pedigree so all-fired hard yu had best pump him.
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