“We’re gettin’ close. My ol’ place is about a mile an’ a half to the left,” a whisper came from one of the men riding in the lead.
“Gosh, that’s Slivers Hart!” Flat-foot cried.
“I’m sure gettin’ curious about this party,” Snoots whispered back.
A short distance farther on, Jim Allen loomed out of the darkness and called to his brother, Jack. The two whispered together, and then all rode on again. When they were within three hundred yards of Boston Jack’s place, they pulled up.
“Yuh gents stay put, an’ if yuh hear shootin’ come a-runnin’,” Jim Allen ordered them briefly. Then he and Jack, Toothpick, and Slivers dismounted and vanished in the darkness toward the ranch houses.
Breathless, the men waited behind. Minutes slipped by, and they began to handle their guns nervously. Then a voice came through the darkness.
“All right. Come on!”
The horses were unsaddled and then turned into the corral. A guard was set, and the rest trooped into the ranch house. The main room in the house was large and square. At one side, there was a big, blazing fire, and the place was lighted by a stable lantern swung from the ceiling. It showed the untidy, dirty traces of several men.
Those who knew Slivers swarmed about him and greeted him.
“Darn my ol’ bones, I’m sure glad to see yuh!” Flat-foot cried, as he wrung the boy’s hand.