The picture of pugnacity, he stood in the door and watched them slowly, sullenly obey him, and then he slammed it again, swearing under his breath. "Quickest way ter git murdered is ter give them Injuns likker!" he growled.
"Mais, oui," said the French-Canadian, placing his fiddle back under his chin, and the stirring air went on again.
Three hours before dawn Hank awoke and without moving his body let his eyes rove over the dark pasture. Then like a flash of light his heavy pistol jammed into the dark blotch almost at his side, and he growled a throaty inquiry.
"It's me, Hank," came the soft reply. "Take that damned thing away! What's up?"
Three other pairs of eyes were turned on them and then their owners stirred a little and grunted salutations, and made slight rustlings as their hands replaced what they had held.
"Nothin', only a courtin' party," chuckled Hank.
"Wall, I've heard tell o' courtin' parties," ruminated Turley; "but never one made up like Injuns and armed to th' teeth. Might know some damned fool thing war afoot when yer mixed up in it. Who ye courtin', at yer time o' life? Somebody's wife?"
"We're aimin' fer Santer Fe," said Hank. "Got ter have help ter git thar th' way we wants. Them Texans has made it hard fer us, a-stirrin' up everythin' like they has."
"Whar'd ye git yer hosses?" anxiously demanded Turley.
"Inderpendence, Missoury," innocently answered Hank, his grin lost in the darkness.