"The fly-cops made it too hot for me, boys," said Dan. "I came within an ace of being caught. One of the beaks had his hands on me, but I knocked him down and lit out."
"Where are you bound for now?" asked Cummings.
"Down to Swanson's ranche."
"We were heading the same way," said Cummings.
Swanson's ranche, situated in the northeastern part of the Indian Territory, near Coulby's Bluff, was about one hundred and fifty miles south of Kansas City. The rolling prairie which stretched between was interspersed with ranches, and an occasional small town, but for the greater part was wild and uninhabited.
Swanson, an Americanized Norwegian, had married a Cherokee squaw, which enabled him to locate in the Indian country. His reputation was none of the best, but his unscrupulous character and well-known skill with the Winchester caused him to be feared, and an officer of the law would think twice before making any attempts to disturb him. It was at this place that the three fugitives were seeking refuge.
The sun had risen, and it was broad day when Cummings, who naturally took the lead, commanded a halt.
A clump of cotton-wood trees on the verge of a small, shallow creek offered a good camping ground.
Hobbling their horses, after taking the saddles from them, they allowed them to graze at will, and the party busied themselves in collecting wood for a fire.
A few sheep which had escaped from some ranch were grazing near the spot, and Moriarity, who had his Winchester, dropped one by a well-directed ball back of the shoulder.