“They’ve stopped!” breathed Grace.
“One of ’em hain’t,” answered Jim. “He’s comin’ on.”
“Jim-Sam, you sit tight, both of you. I’ll talk with him,” said Hippy, stepping forward a little to get the light of the campfire at his back.
A man on a gray bronco rode out of the shadows at a slow trot, and pulled up a few yards from the camp where he sat surveying the outfit. No one spoke, but the Overlanders were ready for any hostile move.
After a few seconds the horseman slipped from his saddle, tossed the bridle-rein over the pommel, and clanked towards the Overlanders. Hippy stepped forward to meet him. The newcomer was short and swarthy. He wore a Mexican sombrero, fancifully decorated; a gun swung at his hip and a row of brass-tipped cartridges showed in his belt. Black, searching eyes swept from one to another of the Overland Riders, finally returning to Hippy Wingate and resting on him with a challenge in their depths.
“Well! Now that you have given us the once-over, what’s the big idea?” demanded Hippy.
“Who be you?” snapped the horseman.
“I might ask the same question.”
“Don’t git funny. It ain’t healthy,” warned the fellow.
“We are here for reasons best known to ourselves, which can be of no interest to you. Are you one of the party that attacked us last night?”