"I'd hate to lose a good cook. They're scarce," he said. The agent winked.
"I've no love for Hollister," he said. "I'll fool 'em. Here they come."
A score of men on galloping horses came dashing up, shouting in excitement, Hollister leading. His nose was still bleeding and he had to mop continually at it with his bandana. He affected not to notice Sheridan but shouted for the agent, who had gone inside, to come out. As the man responded the train started, slowly gathering speed.
"Where's that damned Chink?" demanded Hollister.
"Last I see of him," replied the agent, "he was makin' tracks for the Golden Gate. Goin' due west, fast." He pointed over to the willows that masked a bend of the creek. The mob wheeled and raced in that direction. The agent grinned.
"When they come back I'll sort of suggest that he may have doubled on 'em an' boarded the train," he said. "I'll come out some day to the Circle S an' sample some of his grub."
"You're welcome." Sheridan turned his horse and rode slowly after his men, now hidden by a bend in the road. He did not want to attract possible attention by hurrying. Once on the Circle S, he had no fear of interference for Quong Li. By the time the news leaked out, as it ultimately must, the excitement would have died down, submerged in the joke on Hollister. The laugh would still be against him when they returned from the futile search. Ridicule would calm the resentment against
