The Mexican, dropped unceremoniously when the boys ran for their horses, would have ducked out of sight completely if Bud had not seen his first furtive sidling and caught him by the collar. Him they turned over to the stableman for safe-keeping. He would be kept safe, because the stableman hated any man not of his own race, as is the way of certain cramped souls.
"Now, we'll have to fan it," Bud cried impatiently, "before those drunken punchers of ours do some other fool thing. How soon will the sheriff get here, Mr. Delkin?"
"Wel-l, it's about four-thirty now—little more. Oughta make it by ten or eleven. I was lucky to catch him in the office. Just got in off a wild goose chase down river, he said. I told him if we aren't here or at Palmer's, he better pick up our trail there. Didn't mention getting the money back—too darn many mule-ears on the line. Didn't say anything definite, only I needed him right away, and he'd find me out at Palmer's or somewhere beyond. He'll come on a long lope. And say, Bud, the way the boys shot out the door and took off up the road, I don't believe they were so darn drunk after all!"
"Why?" The harsh judgment of youth still held Bud's reason in thrall. "Think it takes brains to stay on a horse? I never saw our boys too drunk to ride, Mr. Delkin. It's all right—if they take it out in riding and don't attempt to think."
Unconsciously Bud maligned those four. They weren't so far from being sober, once they were out of the atmosphere of the saloon and pelting up the road in the cooling breeze of late afternoon. In spite of Bud's opinion of their mental condition, the four were beginning to think.
"Know what old Palmer done?" Bob Leverett, soberest of the four, half turned in the saddle to face the others as they raced along. "Went after the dough they took from the bank. I'd bet money on it. He heard them cracks you made to Bat about the boat, Tony. That's about when he beat it. Great friend, ain't he? Quit his men cold at the first word you let drop. Betcha he's got the money and gone with it."
"Betcha we ain't fur behind 'im," Tony flashed back. "Bud, he makes me sore! Tell you right now, I don't like the way he rares up an' gives us this high-schoolin' talk when things don't go jest to suit his idees. Hell, I punched cows before Bud was big enough t' keep his own nose clean! Drunk! Huh!"
"Bud, he's a good kid enough, but he's just a kid," Mark Hanley opined. "Swell-headed; knows it all; thinks a little schoolin' gives him a license t' ride herd on us boys like we was yearlin's turned out in the spring. C'm awn—mebbe we kin round up the bunch 'fore he gits there. Learn 'im a little somethin', mebbe."
"Well, I don't want to make any brash statements," said Rosen, "but I betcha Bud, he'll wish 't he'd trailed with our party, 'stead of his own, 'fore he's through. We got 'em runnin' for the boodle, and now we'll fog along behind and glom em jest about the time they git it."
Bob Leverett nodded and pricked his horse with the spurs, and the others lunged ahead to keep pace with him. They were yet some distance from the house when they heard the distant pop of gunshots—the unmistakable pow-w of a .45 fired several times in quick succession, or else one or two shots from several guns. And, riding hard to the gate, they were not too late to see the tell-tale blue haze down by the pasture gate to show where the shooting had taken place.