“Neat little heifer,” commented one of the former.
“You fellers want to clean up a little dust?” asked Cheetim.
“How?” asked the youngest of the party, a puncher who drank too much to be able to hold a job even in this country of hard drinking men.
“Help me c’ral that critter—she’d boom business in the Hog Ranch.”
“We’ve helped you put your iron on lots of mavericks, ‘Dirty,’ ” said the young man. “Whatever you says goes with me.”
“Bueno! We’ll just slap on our saddles and follow along easy like till she gets around Pimos Canyon. They’s a old shack up there that some dude built for huntin’, but it ain’t ben used since the bronchos went out under Juh in ’81—say, that just natch’rly scairt that dude plumb out o’ the country. I’ll keep her up there a little while in case anyone raises a stink, and after it blows over I’ll fetch her down to the Ranch. Now who’s this a-comin’?”
From the direction of the post a mounted trooper was approaching at a canter. He drew rein in front of the Hog Ranch.
“Hello, you dirty bums!” he greeted them, with a grin. “You ain’t worth it, but orders is orders, and mine is to notify the whites in this neck o’ the woods that Geronimo’s gone out again. I hope to Christ he gets you,” and the messenger spurred on along the trail.
Cheetim turned to the Apache. “Is that straight, John?” he asked. “Has Geronimo gone out?”
The Indian nodded affirmatively.