“That outfit wasn’t after no mine supplies,” Rathburn reflected as he finished his brief inspection and again mounted. “An’ they wasn’t taking any chances on smoking anybody up or being followed too quick. Pretty work all around. An’ here’s the committee, hoss!”
A touring car came careening around a turn in the road and raced toward him. He turned his horse to the side of the road and spoke to him as the animal, plainly unfamiliar with motor cars, snorted and shied.
The car drew to a stop with a screeching of brakes. The horseman raised his hands as he saw two rifles leveled at him from the rear seat. There were five men in the car besides the driver. One of the men, who had been sitting in the front with the driver, leaped from the machine and strode toward the rider.
“Calm that horse down an’ climb out of that saddle,” 103 he commanded. “If you make any motions toward that gun you’re packing, it’ll make things simpler, in a way.”
The rider slipped from the saddle with a broad grin. “Right up to form,” he sang cheerfully, although he kept his hands elevated while the other took his gun. “My hoss’ll be calm enough now that that danged thing is shut off. You must be a sheriff to be flirting with the speed limit that way an’ forgetting you’ve got a horn.”
“Where are you from an’ where was you going?” demanded the other.
“I’m from up in the mountains, but I’d never got where I was going if I hadn’t seen you first the way you busted around that curve,” was the cool reply.
“Stranger,” was the next comment in a tone of satisfaction. “Look here, friend, I’m Mannix, deputy from High Point. You’ll sail smoother if you answer my questions straight.”
The deputy motioned to two men in the car. “Search him,” he ordered. Then he stood back, six-shooter in hand.
The stranger built a cigarette while the men were going through him. He lighted the weed and smiled quizzically while they examined the meager contents of the slicker pack on the rear of his saddle.