But the boys had broken into a roar of laughter at Bud Wilson's idea of a peaceable community.
Their merriment was brought to a sudden halt, however.
From the road ahead had come the sudden clatter of a horse's hoofs. The animal was evidently being urged ahead at full speed.
Bud's hand slipped swiftly back to his hip pocket. The boys realized by this almost automatic action that they were in a country where men are apt to shoot first and ask questions afterward.
Presently a little rise brought the galloper into view.
At the sight of the advancing party, he too slackened speed, and his hand made the same curiously suggestive movement as had Bud Wilson's.
"Howdy!" called Bud tentatively to the dark form outlined against the sombre background of brown, scrub-grown foothill and purple mountain.
"Howdy, Bud Wilson!" came back the hail. "I'll be switched if I didn't think it was Black Ramon and some of his gang, for a minute!"
"Why, hello, Walt Phelps!" hailed Bud cheerfully, as the other advanced. "I didn't know but you was some sort of varmint. How be yer?"