"That's the fact," returned Meshackatee, "got warrants for the Scarboroughs. Want you and Bill to help serve 'em."
There was a silence then as Winchester tugged at his mustache and considered the possibilities of the case.
"Well, I'll tell you, Meshackatee," he said at last, "of course it's all right but, after what's happened, Bill and I don't want 'em arrested. We want to see 'em killed."
"No more'n natural," conceded Meshackatee, "but you understand there's such a thing as the law. I can't shut my eyes to no such violations, but—well, my orders, boys, is dead or alive. I reckon you understand."
"Uhr, that's different," replied 'Winchester, as Meshackatee winked at him; but Bill was still in the dark.
"Yes—law!" he burst out, "a man get lots of protection from you deputy sheriffs and such. Here them Scarboroughs have been chasing us like a couple of wild animals for well-nigh onto a month——"
"Never mind, Bill," smiled Winchester, "don't you git the idee? We serve these here warrants with a six-shooter."
"The Scarboroughs," put in Meshackatee, "is charged with first degree murder, for killing your father and Sharps."
"Oh," nodded Bill, and sat in gloomy silence. "Well, gimme a star, then," he said.
They rode on along the ridge, keeping well up above Turkey Creek and watching for the Scarboroughs below; and, as no horsemen appeared, they finally skirted the whole valley and came out in the hills above the Basin. The ground here was open, with waving slopes of grass and timber along the summits; and they made a camp among the oak trees, while they staked out their horses and swept the plain with their field-glasses. They had a pair apiece now, for the men who had ambushed them had left all their glasses on their saddles; and as Meshackatee surveyed the spoils he chuckled in his beard, for the day had not promised so well.