The road to Lost Springs was not the direct route the Indian messenger had taken. It led around steep side hills and high-banked washes in which nothing grew but tough, stunted clumps of thirsty paloverde. Near the tiny settlement, the trail climbed a long slope to swing around a cactus-cluttered mound which served as Lost Springs' Boot Hill. The stage trail cut the barren little graveyard in two, and on both sides of it were headboards, some rotting with age, and others quite new, marking the last resting places of men who had died with smoke in their eyes.
It was nearly sundown when Kid Wolf and the party with the bullet-riddled coach reached this point. They found a group of hard-eyed men waiting for them. With Garvey were his five gunmen, mounted, armed to the teeth, and blocking the road! Kid Wolf caught the driver's eyes and nodded for him to go on. The stage rumbled up to the spot where Garvey waited.
"Stop!" the Lost Springs ruler snarled. "I reckon we want some words with yuh!"
"Is it words yo' want," drawled the Texan, drawing up his snowy mount, "or bullets?"
"That depends on you!" Garvey snapped. "We mean business. Hand over that express money."
"And the next thing?" the Texan asked softly.
"Next thing, we got business with that man!" Garvey pointed to Dave
Robbins' father.
"With me?" Robbins demanded in astonishment.
"The same. We want yuh to sign this paper, turnin' over yore claim in the San Simon to me. Now both of yuh have heard!"
"But why should yuh want my claim in San Simon?"