"I'm goin' with you," said White, "and ketch my hoss. I aim to see you through with this."
In an hour they were back at the cabin with the horses. Andy White glanced at his watch. "Cotton is afoot—for I seen his hoss over there. But he can make it to the T-Bar-T in three hours. That'll give us a start of two hours, anyhow. I don't know which way you aim to ride, but—"
"I'm playin' this hand alone," stated Pete as he saddled Blue Smoke. "No use your gittin' in bad."
White made no comment, but cinched up his pony. Pete stepped to him and held out his hand. "So-long, Andy. You been a mighty square pardner."
"Nothin' doin'!" exclaimed Andy. "I'm with you to the finish."
"Nope, Andy. If we was both to light out, you'd be in it as bad as me."
"Then what do you say if we both ride down to Concho and report to the sheriff?"
"I tried that onct—when they killed Pop Annersley. I know how that would work."
"But what you goin' to do?"
"I'm ridin'," and Pete swung to his horse. Blue Smoke pitched across the clearing under the spur and rein that finally turned him toward the south. Pete's sombrero flew off as he headed for the timber. Andy, reining 'round his horse, that fretted to follow, swung down and caught up Pete's hat on the run. Pete had pulled up near the edge of the timber. Andy, as he was about to give Pete his hat, suddenly changed it for his own. "For luck!" he cried, as Pete slackened rein and Blue Smoke shot down the dim forest trail.