The trail grew slowly but steadily worse, and when they finally reached the bottom of a long, rough slope Johnny ordered a halt.
"I figger we're twenty miles from Gunsight, near as I can judge," he said, "which leaves only ten to Rawlins. Get off that cayuse. You heard me. Yes; get off! Now, any man as shoots a fine little pinto pony an' tells a kid to walk, ought to do some of that walkin' hisself. Rawlins is ten miles; it's twenty to th' Triangle, an' with a lot of hills, an' a bad trail. Also, there's my six-guns. If I ever hear of you comin' back, or see you this side of Rawlins I'll get you. I want to make that plain. If it's th' last thing I do on earth, I'll—get—you! I ain't got no love for th' SV, but h—l ain't good enough for th' man that'll shoot a fine hoss to keep a kid from gettin' a doctor. Thinkin' as mebby you forgot last night, I'll give you another sample of my gunplay." He jerked out a gun and a hole appeared in the crown of Squint's hat. "When I say I'll get you, you know what it means. Turn around, an' keep yore shadow before you. Vamoose!"
Watching the hurrying Squint until satisfied that he intended to keep on in the right direction, Johnny turned back, leading the Bar H horse. He had watched the animal closely while driving Squint, and believed it to be in good enough condition to answer the demand he wished to make upon it. He could tell better when he got back to the SV range, in a certain woody draw near the main trail. This point was reached at dusk and he examined the horse, nodded his head, and picketed the animal to a tree with Squint's lariat. The two hours would do wonders for it. Leaving the Bar H horse, he led his own farther back in the draw and tied it to a tree with his lariat. Returning to Squint's mount, he took the slicker from behind the saddle and unrolled it, picking up the worn gloves which rolled out of it. Finishing his preparations, he went on a reconnaissance on foot, smiled as he saw the dim light in the Doc's house, and quickly returned to the horse.
CHAPTER V
A LESSON IN MEDICAL ETHICS
Doc Reed, finding his tobacco pouch nearly empty, led his horse around to the door and went in to replenish the pouch. He plunged his hand into the big tobacco jar—and let it remain there, the tobacco slipping from his fingers, for a guttural, muffled voice suddenly said:
"Hands up! Shut up! Come here, backwards!"
An argument in one's own mind can be exhaustive and reach a conclusion in a very short space of time. It took the Doc about a second to weigh matters and abandon the idea of hurling the jar, and with the decision his hand came slowly out and went up, with the other, above his head. While he was doing this his eyes had not been idle and they saw everything there was to be seen, for he was trained in observation. They saw: A man of his own height, dressed in an old, well-worn, yellow slicker; a sombrero so covered with gray dust as to resemble a hat only in shape and function, its brim pulled well down in front; a pair of common black trousers reaching from the slicker down to common boots, so thickly covered with gray dust as to resemble the hat in everything but the above-mentioned characteristics; a common cotton kerchief, of a pattern found on half of the kerchiefs on the range, was tied across the caller's face, hiding it from chin to eyes; a narrow strip of the intruder's face, so indistinct in the shadow of the hat brim as even to hide the color of the eyes; a pair of gloved hands, the right of which was held in front of the intruder and on a level with his eyes; and last, but emphatically not least, a heavy, common-calibered Colt, with ivory grips yellowed by use and age, which weapon was firmly gripped by the upraised hand. The hammer was up, and a crooked, gloved finger lay in the trigger guard. As the Doc moved to obey, as he turned around, he caught a glimpse of a heavy, black line running from the lower edge of the ivory grip uncovered by the curling fingers. It looked as though it was a crack filled with dirt, which was a little thing, but not too small a thing to be forgotten.