“We ride out together,” said Hardy, his voice far away, as if he saw it in his mind’s eye, “unarmed––and we notify every sheep-herder we see to move. If Jasp Swope or any of his men kill us while we’re unarmed it’ll be cold-blooded murder, and there’ll be witnesses to prove it. And if the sheep don’t move, we’ll move ’em! What kind of a crime is that, anyway––to drive sheep off the public range? There isn’t an officer of the law within sixty miles, anyhow; and if anybody pulls a gun on us we can slug him in self-defence.”
“Sure,” agreed Creede, “but suppose one of them big-headed Chihuahua Mexicans should happen to shoot you?”
“Well then, I’d be dead,” said Hardy soberly. “But wouldn’t you rather be dead than shut up in that hell-hole down at Yuma?”
“Yes!” cried Creede, holding out his hands as if taking an oath. “I would, by God!”
“Well, come on then!” said Hardy, and they shook hands on it like brothers.
When the rodéo outfit was gathered together in the morning Jefferson Creede deliberately unstrapped his cartridge belt and threw his pistol back onto his bed. Then he winked at his partner as if, rightly understood, the action was in the nature of a joke, and led the way to Pocket Butte.
“You fellows rake the ridges to Bullpit Valley,” he said, briefly assigning every man to his post. “Rufe ’n me’ll hold ’em up for you about four o’clock, but don’t rush the funeral––we’re goin’ to move a few sheep first.”
He smiled mysteriously as he spoke, staving off their pointed queries with equivocal answers.
“See you later,” he observed, turning his horse into a sheep trail, and with that the outfit was forced to be content.