“Out of here, hoss,” he said sharply. “This ain’t our day for visitors.”
He pushed on eastward, increasing its pace, but losing time in skirting the frequent bits of high ground. As he rode down into a deep arroyo, a horseman came galloping into its lower end and raced almost upon him before seeing him. His hand darted like lightning to his gun, and the weapon snapped into aim at his hip. The horseman came to a rearing halt, reins dangling, his hands held high, his eyes bulging from their sockets.
“Rathburn!” he exclaimed.
“The same,” said the man with the gun. “What’s all the disturbance down there?”
“Bob Long is chasing us,” the other answered with a nervous grin.
“As I remember it,” drawled Rathburn, “Bob Long is the sheriff of Mesquite County. You boys sure ain’t been misbehaving?”
“It’s worse than that,” said the fugitive, staring doubtfully at his questioner. “The stage driver’s dead. Had a notion the boss was foolin’ when he told him to reach up for the bugs in the air.”
“Who does the boss happen to be in this case?”
The man hesitated.