Chapter II

9

STRANGE FISH

“Quite a lot,” Paris said.

“Okay. Don't. Fatty is here.”

Paris stopped breathing for a moment. “Where?”

“I did some broadcasting,” Johnny Toms breathed. “I described the fat boy to the cowhands, then sent them around to describe him to some other people. They described him to the cowhands on the Four−Seven, to the cotton farmers in the valley and their colored hired hands, and to the Osage Indians.”

He fell silent. In the corral, two saddle horses got into a biting and kicking affray. They squealed and slammed their hoofs against each other, against the corral bars. It was a frightening sort of an uproar.

“Fatty,” said Johnny Toms, “is camped on Sugar Creek. He is pretending to be a sport from Tulsa on a fishing trip.”

“That close!” Paris gasped.

Sugar Creek was not more than two miles over the hills.

“Uh−huh,” Johnny Toms said. “Furthermore, he has been showing too much interest in the ranch here. With binoculars.”

“But how on earth did he come from New York so quickly.”

“Airplane, maybe.”

Paris shivered. “I don't understand this.”

Johnny Toms had been talking as any young man would talk. It seemed to occur to him that he was out of character. He became a redskin.

“Heap mystery,” he said. “We go ketchum.”

“You what?”

“Ketchum. Give him works.”

“Kidnapping,” Paris reminded, “is supposed to have a law against it.”

“You object?”

“Not,” said Paris, “in the least.”

“Okay.” Johnny Toms stood up. “We ketchum.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“I'm going along,” Paris said, standing up.