"I dropped it this mornin' and busted the handle," he lied. "If it had been in workin' order, I'd have got this Kid Wolf the minute he opened his mouth."
"Well, if the Apaches don't get him, we will," Stephenson declared. "By the way, Garvey, there's another deal on foot. What do yuh think o' this?" And he laid a chunk of ore on the bar under the saloon keeper's nose.
"Solid silver!" Garvey gasped. "Where's it from?"
"From the valley of the San Simon. It's from land owned—owned, mind yuh—by an hombre named Robbins. Gov'ment grant."
"We'll figger a way to get it," returned Garvey, then his eyes narrowed. "What name did yuh say?"
"Robbins. Bill Robbins."
Garvey grinned. "Why, he was on the stage! It was his kid that came here and made his play fer help. Looks like things is comin' our way, after all."
The conference was interrupted by the sound of galloping hoofs. An
Indian pounded up in front of the saloon in a cloud of yellow dust.
The pony was lathered and breathing hard.
"It's a scout!" Garvey cried. "Let him in, and we'll see what he has to say."
The Indian runner's words, gasped in halting, broken English, brought consternation to Garvey and his treacherous gunmen: