Panther Pete was not fool enough not to know that there would be a pursuit of himself, although he hoped that Bug-eye Slocum and his friend Nate Rainey would be able to divert that pursuit in a wrong direction.
Yet he was taking no chances; so he sent back over the various trails that led in the direction of Scarlet Gulch what he called “stool pigeons,” clever members of his road agent band, men whose shrewdness he could rely on, and whose judgment and courage he could trust.
It was the business of these men to draw any pursuers into a certain trap—a peculiar place, rock surrounded, not far from the hidden valley, where they could be slaughtered readily by the road agents.
Bill Hatfield was one of the “pigeons,” and about the shrewdest of the lot.
He had been sent out, and he had climbed into a low, thick tree, after morning came, and from that coign of vantage was watching the trail that stretched in the direction of the town, expecting momentarily to see in it something worth while. What he saw after a time was Silas Deland and young Ben Denton. They were mounted, but were coming on slowly, for Denton’s wound made him weak. He was hollow-eyed and pale; in this respect his face being in most marked contrast with the red face of Deland.
“’Tain’t Buffler Bill,” said the “pigeon” in the tree, “ner anybody like him; but they’re from ther town, and what they’re out hyer fer nobody don’t need ter ask. So, I reckons, according to the order of ther boss, it’s my duty to cut in, if I can.”
Yet he did not descend from the tree, but sat crouched in the thick branches, watching the advance of the pair.
When the horsemen reached the tree, which stood on a little eminence, they halted, just under him.
“I reckon we’ll light down here a little while, and rest ye,” said Deland kindly, glancing about and seeing no signs of enemies.
“I believe that place is not far from here,” said Denton. Though pale and weak, the fire of courage and determination burned in his eyes and revealed itself in his voice. “I’d like to push right on.”