“So I have! I’m not accustomed to carrying the thing, and if you had not reminded me I probably wouldn’t have thought of it again for a week. I don’t believe it is necessary to carry one, anyway, but my friend, Colonel Whittaker, insisted that I should do so.”
“You never know when you’ll need one down in this country,” Haney replied, with a sad shake of the head. “It’s pretty tough, I can tell you. There’s that Emerson Mead outfit. They’re the worst in the southwest. You’d need your gun if you should meet any of them.”
“Yes, our company has had very serious and very sad experience with them.”
“Ah, yes! Poor young Whittaker! I ’eard about ’is death. That was the wickedest thing they’ve ever dared to do. Most everybody in this country ’as lost cattle by them and we’d all be glad to see ’em driven out.”
“They belong to that class of cattlemen,” Wellesly replied, “who start in the business with one old steer and a branding iron, and then let nature take its course.”
Haney laughed uproariously and when he could speak added: “Yes, and in three years they ’ave bigger ’erds than any of their neighbors. You’re right, sir, and the sooner the country gets rid of such men the better. I don’t think, Mr. Wellesly, it’s safe for you to ride alone where you are likely to meet any of that outfit. You know the feeling they ’ave for your company, and what they did for young Will, poor boy, they’d do for you if they got the chance. I’ve got business out your way, over at Muletown, and if you don’t mind I’ll ride along with you that far. That will put you on the right road and if we should meet any of the Mead outfit they wouldn’t be so likely to shoot as if you were alone.”
“All right, Mr. Mullford, I’ll be very glad of your company. I’m no plainsman, and it is the easiest thing in the world for me to get lost out here among the mesquite and sagebrush, where the country all looks alike. I suppose I have about the least sense of direction of any man who ever tried to find his way across a plain alone.”
“You needn’t worry about that now. Just leave it to me and I’ll get you to Muletown by the shortest route. I know all this country thoroughly, every cow-path and water ’ole in it, and you couldn’t lose me if you tried. You needn’t think about the road again this afternoon.”
Haney buckled on a full cartridge belt and a revolver, put a pair of saddle bags with a big canteen of water in each side over his horse, slung a rifle on one side of his saddle, and they started off along a slightly beaten road straight toward the southeast. Wellesly asked Haney if he were sure they were going in the right direction, and Haney assured him that it was all right and chaffed him a little that he so easily lost the points of the compass. In the distance, a mile or so ahead of them, they saw a man on horseback leading another horse which carried a pack. When Wellesly again said that he did not understand how he could be so entirely at sea, Haney suggested that they overtake this traveler and get his assurance in the matter. They galloped up beside him and called out a friendly hail. It was Jim, the vaquero from Mead’s ranch, but he and Haney looked at each other as if they had never met before. He assured Wellesly that they were certainly on the road which led to Las Plumas by the way of Muletown, that he knew it perfectly well, having traveled it many times, and that he himself was going past Muletown to the Hermosa mountains.
“You see,” he explained, “Muletown ain’t on the straight line between here and Las Plumas. It’s away off to one side and you have to go quite a ways around to get there. That’s what has mixed you up so, stranger. The road has to go past Muletown, because it’s the only place on the plain where there’s water.”