The old-timer realized that this was Allen’s simple philosophy. There was no use worrying about a bridge until you came to it. As McAllister watched Allen saddle Honeyboy, he knew that all thought of the twins had been dismissed from the boy’s mind.
Snoots was about to speak, when a peremptory gesture of Allen’s hand held him silent.
The little outlaw’s head was cocked sideways like that of an animal who has heard something and is unable to place it. He rose in his stirrups and gazed across the brush, then a second later he relaxed.
“Two gents comin’ with a dead man,” he announced.
The other two strained their ears, but could hear nothing. It was several minutes later before they heard the clink of a horse’s hoof against a stone. Then, from out of the brush, two riders appeared, leading a third horse on which there dangled a strange pack.
The faces of the three watchers grew white and then hard. They instantly recognized the two riders, as well as the man who was taking his last ride. It was the garrulous Shorty who was tied across the saddle. The two riders were both newcomers to the ranch.
“Where’d yuh find him? Who downed him?” Bill asked.
“Reckon he was dry-gulched,” one said.
“We finds him over to Sunk Creek in that wash by them big white stones,” the other added.
“He had his gun in his hand, three shells empty, so I reckon he made a fight for it,” the first continued. “We scouted around an’ finds where the killers lay behind some brush.”