Tubbs was waiting in the gulch. Smith looked at the spot where White Antelope’s body had lain, and reflected that it was curious how long the black stain of blood would stay on sand and gravel. He had been lucky to get out of that scrape so easily, he told himself as he rode by.
“I guess you know what you’re up against, feller,” he said bluntly, as he and Tubbs met.
“I inclines to the opinion that it’s a little cattle deal,” Tubbs replied facetiously.
“You inclines right. Now, here’s our play—listen. The Bar C outfit is workin’ up in the mountains, so they won’t interfere with us none, and about three or three and a half days’ drive from here there’s some fellers what’ll take ’em off our hands. We gets our wad and divvies.”
“What for a hand do I take?”
“By rights, maybe, we ought to do our work at night, but I’ve rode over the country, and it looks safe enough to drive ’em into the gulch to-day. They isn’t a human in sight, and if one shows up, I reckon you know what to do.”
“It sounds easy enough, if it works,” said Tubbs dubiously.
“If it works? Feller, if you’ve got a yeller streak, you better quit right here.”
“I merely means,” Tubbs hastened to explain, “that it sounds so easy that it makes me sore we wasn’t doin’ it before.”
The reply appeared to pacify Smith.