"How long since?"
"Three minutes gone, yer 'anner; and can any of yez tell me if this is the road to Misther Chalkeye Davies?"
Pedersen had spurred on, and we swept after him, leaving Mr. Curly McCalmont howling Irish curses because we hadn't pointed him on his trail to Las Salinas.
We were scarcely gone when a second outfit of five stragglers came rolling down the trail, headed by Shorty Broach, one of the men who had been hurt that night in the gun-fight. He always hated Balshannon's folks worse than snakes; he was heaps eager now for Curly McCalmont's blood; and the two thousand dollars which went along with it. But worse than that, this Shorty was a sure plainsman, who never forgot a horse. Still he went past with his crowd before he saw anything wrong with that black horse I'd lent, or the buckskin mare Jim was riding. Then he swung.
"Hold on, boys! Say, I knows that buckskin. That's Crook's buckskin mare at the livery—here's Curly McCalmont's mare!"
The riders tried to call Shorty off, told him to soak his head, remembered that Crook's buckskin had white stockings, whereas this mare's points were black, which made all the difference.
"Them horses is blown, they're run full hard," says Broach; "they've been surely chased, and I'm due to inquire more."
On that the riders began to circle around, while Curly slung out Irish by the yard about running away from the robbers.
"Shure," says he, "and it's the Chief of the Police no less we're talkin' wid."
"Throw up your hands!" says Broach, pointing his gun on Jim, but the youngster was busy rolling a cigarette.