An oath from the rider behind apprised Robinson that his words had taken full effect. He grinned slightly. A moment later his horse started as a gun was fired in the air. Looking over his shoulder, Robinson saw the puncher in the act of firing the second time.
“Two shots is plenty,” he observed. “That’s real friendly of you, cowboy. I’d hate to spoil everything by not havin’ fired that there weapon.”
The sullen rider gave him a malevolent glance and motioned ahead. Robinson turned and made no further overtures.
They jogged on in silence, the hoofs raising a slow cloud of dust that followed and drifted over them with the breeze of noonday. For half an hour neither man spoke a word, and then Robinson again ventured an effort:
“You three gents must ha’ been planted when I rode by and spoke with Cervantes. Ain’t that the way of it now?”
No response at all. Robinson chuckled.
“I guess that’s it, feller. Buck seen me, and got a great idea. Looks like he was dead right about it, too. Only thing that worries me is this: Who fired the two shots? Each o’ these hosses has a rifle, but they was a third puncher along with you. However, that don’t matter right now. The three of you was planted, seen me, and let me go past. That was actin’ real clever toward me, as they say down south. Ever been down thataway, feller? You come down some day and get you a job on the SF Ranch below Pecos City. I’ll help you get it any old time. Sam Fisher owns her. He’s a smart young feller, they do say, only he don’t justify his reputation much. Least, that’s what Jake Harper says.”
“Hold your jaw!” came the savage command from behind.
Robinson glanced over his shoulder and beheld another cloud of dust far behind them. His captor jerked on the lariat, and continued:
“Robinson, you start any talkin’ and you’ll never reach town alive. I means it. When that gent comes up, if he ain’t Buck you lay low.”