Along toward sunset we rode up to Carrick’s place. The sheep ranch extended for many acres to the north, while the house, barn, and corral were on the banks of a low willow creek. Carrick was sitting on a bench out in front. Going directly up to him, the Texan said:
“Scott’s bin killed—shot.”
“The hell you say!”
“We think your Injin Jim done it.”
He pretended great anger.
“Well, if he did, ketch him and string him up for it. He’ll be back in a little while.”
We waited.
It was not long until several horsemen appeared and rode up to the gate. Joe Johnston’s hired man, who was a fool and easily excited, marched up to Injin Jim and said:
“We’re here to arrest you.”
I have seen a prestidigitator work the most astonishing disappearances of material things, but I never saw a human being take himself off into space as quickly as this one did. Jim gave one flick and was flying into the woods. I was off and under my horse in an instant, but my pistol missed fire. He had disappeared into the willow creek, which was overgrown with grass, with here and there patches of water covering treacherous quicksand. Our only hope was to close round him and ride him out.