“Gone to rake in another prisoner fer you to shoot!” was the brutal answer. One of the outlaws “ha-hahed” at this, his sympathies being against Clayton. “And as the other one is here yit, you’ll have two to shoot, soon’s the boss gits back.”
Clayton did not answer, but slid out of his saddle.
“The boss said that if you did come back you’d got to do what he ordered ye to, er he’d sure shoot you!” Molloy added, with a sneer.
Clayton picketed his horse, and returned to where the outlaws were grouped. At one side lay the prisoner, old Nick Nomad; and Nomad’s horse was with the other horses, grazing by the stream.
“You heard what I said?” snapped Molloy.
“Yes, I heard what you said.”
Clayton felt and looked confused. His cheeks burned hot again, and he knew he was trembling a little. Yet he tried to hide this indication of weakness.
Some of the men greeted him, but coldly and rather surlily. He saw that he had fallen in their estimation. It was a rule of the band that whatever the “boss” ordered had to be done, and no questions asked. Clayton had refused to obey orders, and that made him a marked man.
“If you heard what I said, why don’t you answer?” Molloy demanded.
“I don’t have to,” Clayton flared, shaken by growing anger. “Who are you, anyway?”