“Yes, señor.”
“Go and get him ready for a hard ride, and prepare your traps, for I do not care to have you return here.”
The Mexican obeyed, not sorry to avoid the fight he knew was coming. Soon he returned to where his chief stood.
“I have written a letter here. Take it to Parson Miller; you know where he lives, and he will tell you what to do. Go by the secret outlet to this retreat, and ride like the wind.”
“Yes, señor chief.”
The Mexican sprang on his horse and rode away, while Kent King turned to his men, who were rapidly gathering around him.
“We are going to have a brush with the enemy, boys, but we can stand them off for a few days, and then secretly retreat at night. Are you all ready for the fight?”
He ran his eyes over the villainous-looking band, which certainly was a hard crowd, for there were German, Spanish, Mexican, American, negro, and even Chinese bravadoes in the lot, and all of them men who were legal candidates for the gallows.
In half an hour more the Revolver Riders and vigilantes came in sight, and camped in the valley below, as if they had come to stay and meant business. Kent King watched them holding councils of war with a sneer upon his handsome, but cruel, dissipated face, and in his eyes shone a triumphant light.