When the sounds died out the trapper threw a ponderous leg over the other, puffed at his pipe, and, looking across in the face of one of the most famous horse thieves in Western Texas, asked in his off-hand fashion:
“How’s business, Bell?”
“Mighty bad,” was the reply, accompanied by a shake of the head.
“How’s that?”
“There are too many at it, and the officers are after us too sharp. You remember Zip Cooley?”
“I’ve knowed Zip for twenty years, but have lost track of him for the past two or three seasons. How is he?”
“He’s at rest at last,” replied Rickard, with another sigh. “The vigilantes down in Nacogdoches country got the drop on him—used him mighty mean—made him dance on nothing, with his chin among the limbs of a tree. Poor Zip was one of the best men I ever had, but he’s crossed the big divide.”
“That was bad for Zip,” said Eph grimly, “but I don’t reckon the folks down in Nacogdoches will rear a monument reachin’ to the clouds to keep his mem’ry green.”
“Then,” added Rickard, “Waxhurst and Doffgo wanted to branch out, so they crossed over into Arkansas, made a good haul, and started through the Indian Nation.”