“That’s a hot one, Deadshot,” grinned his boss. “It’s a good thing for you Pinky isn’t here, or between Sandy and him, they’d have your goat before sundown.”
In a silence that was portentous in its intensity, the cowboy took out his corn husk cigarette papers and makings, deftly rolled one, lighted it, and, taking a long draw, blew out the smoke deliberately, while his companions wondered along what lines his retort would be.
“Did you ever notice, Sam?” he finally drawled, “that there’s some folks has to be hit with a thing before they can see it? That’s the case with Sandy, here, though, as a member of the Double Cross outfit, I hate to be obliged to admit it. Instead of realizing when a feller is clever enough to pull off that ghostie stunt to cover a raid there’d be trouble in getting close enough to ’em to pump ’em full of lead, he don’t tumble to it till about eighteen hours afterwards.”
Fortunately, the foreman of the Double Cross had a highly developed sense of humor, and he laughed at the pat rejoinder as heartily as either Bowser or the man who uttered it—with the result that what might have turned into a serious quarrel between the two cowpunchers and endangered the harmony of the avengers, and the united action necessary to catch the raiders was avoided.
When Mrs. Hawks had finished her housework, she appeared on the veranda with a basket of sewing and called to the men to join her. But, upon the pretext that they were obliged to keep close watch of one of their ponies in the fear it had strained a tendon, they managed to avoid the tiresome company of the well-intentioned but garrulous woman.
Now perched on the top rail of the corral, now stretched upon the ground, the three men who were so eager to be on their way in pursuit of the raiders whiled away the time, ever and again searching the horizon to the East for a glimpse of the Star and Moon outfit, with what patience they could muster.
But as the afternoon wore away without either sight or sound of them, Bowser began to grow restless.
“If those devils find we haven’t reached the swamps by sundown, they are just as likely as not to drive my cattle to some other place—and then we surely will have a merry time locating them. It’ll be hard enough if we know they are in the bottoms. But when we can’t be certain even of that, we’ll have the very old Nick of a time,” he complained.
“What do you want to do, start out and leave word for Hen and his men to follow?” asked Sandy. “It does seem too bad to give the ornery cusses a chance to get away on us.”
“That’s the idea I was figuring on,” returned the ranchman. “What do you say, Deadshot?”