“I tell you ther’ ain’t nothin’ fer it but to roll up to old blind hulks an’ ast him to send us out. Ef this dog-gone skunk’s let be, ther’ ain’t no stock safe. Guess I’ve had my med’cine from ’em, and I’m jest crazy fer more. I’ve had to do wi’ fellers o’ their kidney ’fore, I guess. We strung six of ’em up in a day on the same tree down Arizona way, as that gray-headed possum, Joe Nelson, well remembers. Say, we jest cleaned our part o’ that country right quick. Guess ther’ wa’n’t a ‘bad man’ wuth two plugs o’ nickel chawin’ around when we’d finished gettin’ ’em. Say, this feller’s played it long enough, an’ I’m goin’ right now to see the boss. He’s around. Who’s comin’?”
“Yes, an’ Archie Orr’s a pore sort o’ crittur to git left wi’ two women-folk,” said Raw Harris, rising from his upturned bucket and putting forth his argument, regardless of its irrelevance. “Not a stick to shelter him—which I mean ‘them.’ An’ not a dog-gone cent among ’em. By G——, Arizona’s right.”
“That’s it,” put in Joe Nelson; “you’ve hit it. Not a dog-gone cent among ’em, an’, what’s more, owin’ blind hulks a whole heap o’ bills on mortgage. Say, that was mostly a weak move him askin’ the boss fer help. Why, I guess old Marbolt hates hisself on’y one shade wuss’n he hated Manson Orr. Say, boys, ef we’re askin’ to lynch Red Mask, we ain’t askin’ in any fancy name like ‘Orr.’ Savee?”
There was silence for a moment while they digested the wisdom of the suggestion. Then Jacob Smith nodded, and Lew Cawley murmured—
“Dead gut every time, is Joe.”
This loosened their tongues again until Tresler spoke.
“See here, boys, you’re talking of lynching, and haven’t a notion of how you’re going to get your man. Don’t even know where to lay hands on him. Do you think Marbolt’s going to turn us all loose on the war-path? Not he. And how are two or three of us going to get a gang of ten or twelve? Besides, I believe it’ll be easier to get him without a lynching party. Remember he’s no ordinary cattle-rustler. I say lie low, he’ll come our way, and then——”
“That’s it, lie low,” broke in Joe Nelson, shaking his gray head over a pannikin of tea, and softly blowing a clearing among the dead flies floating on its surface. “Maybe y’ ain’t heard as the sheriff’s come around Forks. Guess he’s fixed a station ther’.”