"They've taken us prisoners and are keeping us, and they've got our burros and flags and a message," spoke up the general.
He was a small man with a black mustache and blackish whiskers growing. He rode a bay horse with a K Cross on its right shoulder, and the saddle had brass-bound stirrups. He wore a black slouch hat and was in black shirt-sleeves, and ordinary pants and shoes.
"A message we were carrying."
"Where?"
"Across from our town to Green Valley."
"Why?"
"Just for fun."
"Aw, that's a lie. They were to get twenty-five dollars for doing it on time. Now we cash it in ourselves," spoke Bill. "It was a race, and they don't make good. See?"
That was a lie, sure. We weren't to be paid a cent—and we didn't want to be paid.