“That’s my specialty.” With a laugh, Robinson was in the saddle and turning his horse toward town. “See you later. If you take a notion, I’ll prob’ly be in town until about eight o’clock to-night. And mind, you leave Buck be! He’ll hang for that murder!”
With this he put spurs to his cayuse and careered down the road in a cloud of dust. Steve Arnold looked after him, scowled down at the dead man, then reined about and started on the back trail. He was quivering, tremulous with a stern excitement.
“My first man!” He looked back at the motionless figure, then straightened in the saddle. “Well, I s’pose it had to come some time—and I’m glad I paid out the cuss for what he done at the spring. Question is, can I git to town ’fore eight o’clock to-night? Red, he’s sure aimin’ to raise Cain with somebody there.”
When at length he dismounted at the Lazy S, he was met by Buck and Chuck Hansom, the latter a cheerful scoundrel who sported an Indian beadwork vest and was credited with an aptitude for any deviltry.
“Howdy, Steve!” greeted Buck. “Jest come from town? Meet anybody?”
“Uh-huh.” Arnold busied himself unsaddling. “Done heard the news. Met that hombre of yourn with his pris’ner in tow. Brought in Cervantes, have you?”
Buck nodded gravely. “Where’s Jake Harper, d’you know?”
“Home, I reckon. His rheumatiz was right bad this mornin’,” said Arnold coolly. “Miss Stella inside? I got a letter for her.”
“I’ll take it in,” proffered Jake. “She’s right cut up about Miguel. I don’t guess you’d better bother her now, Steve——”
Arnold’s hand fell to his gun. So deadly was his face in that moment that Buck instinctively took a step backward.