The outlaw gave him a sidelong look. "Oh, well," he said, "if you're set on it, all right."
When they had entered the draw after a terrible, sliding descent of the back trail—during which Lafe often bore his prisoner's entire weight—Moffatt spoke up again.
"Got any bread?" said he.
"You bet. Why?"
"Well, there's a big ol' mule we turned out here. I done found him last year down in Zacaton Bottom. He was like to of died, that mule. But I fixed him up good and packed some bedding and chuck on him way up here. He's sure been useful, too. You keep your eye skinned and if you see him, just give him bread. Ridin's cheaper'n walkin'."
"It sure is. Let's go—easy—that's it."
The two had covered another mile of the draw, when, behind a tangle of mesquite, sounded a snort of suspicion.
"Good boy. Good ol' boy," said Johnson soothingly, advancing with the bread extended.
The mule jumped sidewise, hampered by a hobble. He sniffed and the sheriff followed, with endearing words and blandishments. Would he never stand still? It was a gaunt animal, with an especially large head. Probably it smelled the delicacy so rarely enjoyed, because it came blowing at Lafe's hand. Whilst it munched on the crust, Johnson removed the hobble and tied the rope around its neck. Then, with a fervent prayer that the evil latent in every mule might be appeased, he hoisted Moffatt to his back and clambered up behind him. They headed out of the draw.
The sun was three hours high when they struck the road and paused at a wallow to give their mount a sip of water. Outside the draw he had obstinately refused to proceed faster than a walk and Lafe's sense of security was not sufficient to dispute the pace with him. As he lifted his massive head from drinking, a pair of mules shoved their noses above a rise and a wagon came into view. A white man was driving. Johnson waved his hat and shouted a frantic greeting.