Curly closed his eyes and lay peaceful.
The hold-up was squatting back on his heels, looking out across the desert. "Don Rex," said he, "I had a warning sent to Sheriff Bryant that I was coming down to lift all yo' hawsses. My wolves tracked Bryant's rider to Lordsburgh, where he wired to you. You came running, and had all yo' hawsses rounded up convenient for me, in the stable-yard of this house. I thank you, seh."
"My good man, I'll bet you an even thousand dollars," said the patrone, "that you don't lift a hoof of my haw—remuda."
"It's a spawtin' offer, and tempts me," answered the outlaw. "Oblige me by taking my gun from the ground here and firing three shots in the air."
The patrone took the gun, and at his third shot saw a man ride out from behind the bastion on our right. McCalmont waved to him, and he came, putting a silk mask over his face as he rode, then halted in front of us, shy as a wolf, gun ready for war.
"Young man," said McCalmont, "repeat to these gentlemen here the whole of yo' awdehs fo' the day. Leave out the names of the men."
"You're giving us dead away!" said the rider, threatening McCalmont with his gun. "You mean that?"
"I mean what I say."
"Ah! Excuse me, McCalmont," said the patrone, "your—er—pistol, I think."
"Thanks, seh." McCalmont took the gun. "Repeat the awdehs!" he said. "These gentlemen are our friends."