We scrambled on up the trail, an’ when we reached the top we found a little park with the grass knee high an’ a fringe o’ spruce trees about it. The song had come to a sudden end, an’ we found the singer on foot with a noose about his neck an’ nine rather tough-lookin’ citizens holdin’ a parley with him. We came to the same sort of a stop the song had, an’ Spider Kelley sez in a low tone, “What do ya suppose this is?”
“I don’t know,” sez I, touchin’ my pony, “but I’m with the singer”; so me an’ Spider rode on down to ’em.
I purty well sensed what it was: the’ was a heap o’ rebrandin’ bein’ done at that time, an’ stringin’ a man up was supposed to be the only cure; but I was willin’ to bet my roll that this singer wasn’t a rustler. The feller in charge o’ the posse was an evil-lookin’ cuss, an’ if he’d ’a’ had the rope around his neck, it wouldn’t have looked so misplaced. He was ridin’ a Cross brand hoss; so I guessed him to belong to the Tyrrel Jones outfit. Most o’ the others in the posse was ridin’ the same brand o’ hosses an’ wearin’ the same brand of expressions. It was a tough-lookin’ bunch.
We came up to ’em an’ they looked our ponies an’ us over an’ nodded. We nodded back an’ I asked ’em what seemed to be the trouble.
“We’ve finally got the feller who has been doin’ the rustlin’ out this way,” sez the leader, whose name was Flannigan, Badger-face Flannigan.
“That’s good,” sez I; “but he don’t look the part.”
“He acts it all right,” growls Badger-face, showin’ his fangs in what was meant for a grin. “He’s ridin’ one of our hosses, an’ leadin’ a string o’ D lazy Ls.”
“Leadin’ ’em?” sez I.
“Yes, he’s got some sort of a charm in his voice. Whiskers, here, saw him go up on foot an’ rope this colt an’ lead him off the same as a plow hoss.”
“Did Whiskers, here, see him charm the loose string, too?” I asked.