“Gosh, she’s sure a-smoking!” observed Sandy Davitt, his squint gaze flitting to the smoke in the north. “They done it, all right. Fired everything in sight! I’ll bet Jake will curse over losin’ his first cuttin’ of alfalfa. He only laid it in last week.”
Buck smiled weakly, but made no response. If he lost his stake, he would lose more than alfalfa.
Knowing to what manner of work they rode, the four pressed on warily, eyes searching the landscape ahead. They were unlikely to meet any one here. The Lazy S and Circle Bar lands ran together at a short distance, and the river road was only a trail used by the few riders of the two ranches.
They came upon it at last, and simultaneously drew rein. The trail told them a plain story; no one had passed this way within the past few hours, at least.
“What you aim to do?” asked one of the punchers as they sat motionless. “Rope him?”
“Rope him?” Buck spat a vicious oath. “We’d look fine ropin’ that gent—and Arnold! What would we want to rope ’em for?”
Sandy Davitt laughed harshly. He swung up his arm to a bend in the road fifty yards to their left.
“Stick right here, Buck, and drop ’em as they come around that bend. Don’t need the rifles to do it. Better hobble the cayuses in this bresh.”
Buck nodded assent. A better place for the ambush could not be found.
The four men dismounted. One of the punchers led off the animals. The other three went to the river bank, here a scant hundred yards distant, and slaked their thirst. Upon rising, Buck gave his orders.