“An' if there's any trouble about it we can hang two as well as we can one,” suggested Stevenson, placidly. “You sit tight an' mind yore own affairs, stranger,” he warned.
Hopalong turned his head slowly. “He's a liar, stranger; just a plain, squaw's dog of a liar. An' I'll be much obliged if you'll lick hell outen 'em an' let—why, hullo, hoss-thief!” he shouted, at once recognizing the other. It was the man he had met in the gospel tent, the man he had chased for a horse-thief and then swapped mounts with. “Stole any more cayuses?” he asked, grinning, believing that everything was all right now. “Did you take that cayuse back to Grant?” he finished.
“Han's up!” roared Stevenson, also covering the stranger. “So yo're another one of 'em, hey? We're in luck to-day. Watch him, boys, till I get his gun. If he moves, drop him quick.”
“You damned fool!” cried Ferris, white with rage. “He ain't no thief, an' neither am I! My name's Ben Ferris an' I live in Winchester. Why, that man you've got is Hopalong Cassidy—Cassidy, of the Bar-20!”
“Sit still—you can talk later, mebby,” replied Stevenson, warily approaching him. “Watch him, boys!”
“Hold on!” shouted Ferris, murder in his eyes. “Don't you try that on me! I'll get one of you before I go; I'll shore get one! You can listen a minute, an' I can't get away.”
“All right; talk quick.”
Ferris pleaded as hard as he knew how and called attention to the condition of the prisoner. “If he did take the wrong cayuse he was too blind drunk to know it! Can't you see he was!” he cried.
“Yep; through yet?” asked Stevenson, quietly.
“No! I ain't started yet!” Ferris yelled. “He did me a good turn once, one that I can't never repay, an' I'm going to stop this murder or go with him. If I go I'll take one of you with me, an' my friends an' outfit'll get the rest.”