“Yes.”
“Ef Red Steve hes got er hoss, an’ er saddle, an’ a wad o’ dinero, he won’t hang eround ther Brazos. He’ll git ter whar he kain’t be found. Then, ef he does thet, how aire we goin’ ter prove it was him, an’ not Nate, as done ther trick fer Jake Phelps?”
“It’s a hard proposition we’re facing,” said the scout gloomily. “But Nate may be able to prove an alibi.”
“How?”
“Oh, in a dozen ways. Suppose he met some one riding his way? That man might give information that would clear Nate. We’ve got Nate’s side of this to hear yet. Just now, it looks as though he and Lige Benner would have to work shoulder to shoulder.”
“Fer why?”
“Why, because Benner will be suspected of complicity in what happened to Ace Hawkins, same as Nate will be suspected in the matter of Jake Phelps. The capture of Red Steve will help out both of them.”
“Thet’s so. A good head is a heap better fer a feller, any time, than a pair of guns. Let’s don’t fergit thet Pard Hickok is camped on Red Steve’s trail. Mebby Hickok hes got hands on Red Steve by this time.”
“I’m hoping he has had some success.” The scout pointed to a rapidly approaching cloud of dust in advance of him and Nomad. “Some one coming this way,” said he.
As the rider approached, and the faint wind whipped the dust aside, the pards made out that it was Sim Pierce.