“I wish I had an airplane,” grumbled Hippy Wingate. “I never did like to walk when I had to.”
“We will take the rifles and revolvers of the highwaymen with us. I do not believe they will have use for their weapons. We may need them ourselves. Mr. Fairweather, if you will get the horses ready we will load up and start.”
Ike removed his sombrero and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.
“Yes, I’ll get ’em ready, but what Ike Fairweather wants to say, he can’t, ’cause somehow it sticks in his crop an’ won’t come out. You’re the real thing, all of you is, an’ any galoot that says you ain’t—well, Ike Fairweather will take care of thet critter.”
“You fellows, I have a word for you,” announced Grace, turning to the prisoners. “I warn you that if you try to get away I shall shoot.”
“Which, altogether an’ in partic’lar means thet the everlastin’ daylights will be blown out of the critter thet tries to get away,” reminded Ike. “Fair warnin’s fair warnin’.”
“But not Fairweather,” chuckled Hippy Wingate, which brought a groan of disapproval from the Overton girls.
Placing the prisoners on the horses and tying them securely was a proceeding that took some little time, so that it was fully an hour later before the procession started out, Elfreda, Anne, Emma and Nora riding on the two leading horses, Ike leading the prisoners’ mounts, Hippy in the middle of the procession, and Grace Harlowe, with a bandit’s rifle slung in the crook of her right arm, bringing up the rear.
The highwaymen were sullen, not uttering a word, so far as Grace had heard, though she had no doubt that they had quietly exchanged confidences. The one who was most severely wounded was the man whose scalp a bullet had raked, but he apparently was in no danger, though still weak from loss of blood.
“Is there a place where we can get breakfast, if still on the trail in the morning?” called Anne.