"Pretty slick, boys," he said, "two horses apiece now, and these field-glasses are sure good for weak eyes. I feel it in my bones I'll soon have a big posse—say, ain't that one of the Scarboroughs by the house?"
"It's Red," responded Hall, "he's riding my horse. I'd know that little roan anywhere."
"Remember that time when he tried to trade you out of him? Well, that's Red—he's crazy about horses."
"Yes, and I'm crazy, too," said Hall, still watching him through his glasses. "I'll bet you I get that horse back."
"How?" demanded Meshackatee, but Hall shrugged his shoulders.
"How does anybody get back a horse?" he asked.
"By cracky!" burst out Meshackatee, "that gives me an idee! Do you mean you're going to steal 'im? Well, we'll pull a little Injun stuff, jest to pay 'em for this morning, and I bet you we come pretty nigh gitting Red!"
"Well, count me in on that," put in Winchester quietly. "It was Red that shot the old man."
"I know this is good," said Meshackatee, "because I saw it pulled off once myself. The A-paches danged near worked it on me. Instead of stealing that horse, jest slip up and pull his picket-pin; and like any horse he'll make for the hills. It ain't nature for a horse to stay out on them flats—they always like to git up on high ground. Well, let 'im ramble till daylight and then see where he's gone to—and be there when Red comes up."
"Let me do it!" clamored Bill, but Winchester brushed him aside.