“Nope. Never heard o’ Cholo Bill—most likely he’s a halfbreed greaser, same’s that cuss Mendoza. Tom Emery’s different. He’s a bad man, real bad. Got out o’ jail in Arizona two year back, murdered a rancher in the White Mountains, and skipped out. I reckon there’s a reward for him.”
“All right. You collect all the rewards—what I’m after is scalps.”
“That suits me, Perfesser. She goes as she lays. What’s the program?”
Ramsay, having finished his breakfast, lighted his pipe and considered.
“The thing to do, of course,” he said tentatively, “is to apprise the nearest legal officers of conditions, get the sheriff to work, and round up the gang.”
Sagebrush eyed him askance, in no little astonishment.
“Is that there your program, then?”
“No.” Ramsay’s blue eyes twinkled. “No, it isn’t. I only mentioned it as the proper thing.”
“If we all done the proper thing, this would be a hell of a world,” and Sagebrush sighed in relief. “I nominates that we light a shtick out o’ yere, go over to that there Hourglass Cañon, and clean her up. Everybody there is wanted, you betcha!. We don’t need no warrants, nor no officers fussin’ around to see things is done right.”
“Nomination seconded,” said Ramsay promptly. “How far is it from here?”