“But––”
“Bill’s knocked out. Curly’s off as soon as he can start for Tellurium. That leaves you and Pete to look after the ranch. I may be gone some time.”
“But you can’t rope him alone!” protested Farrish.
“I don’t expect to. There isn’t a horse in the Park that could overtake him. He’ll make for the San Luis, of course. I’ll get help there. Now then, Farrish, you’re in charge of the ranch. If anything should happen to me, Jim knows where all my papers are. That’s all.”
Farrish hastened to saddle Trixy, coiling a rope at the saddle horn, and strapping a slicker behind the saddle. At this moment came Pete from the cottage, bringing the revolver and cartridge belt, which Haig buckled on while Farrish led Trixy out in front of the stable.
There was a word or two more to Farrish, about the cattle and the hay, and Haig swung himself into the saddle.
“Wait!” cried Pete, running out of the stable.
He handed a flask of whisky to Haig, who took it, smiling, and thrust it into a pocket of his coat.
“Sure cure for everything, eh, Pete?”