“I know it, but he tried to kill you.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t make good at it, Cleve.”
“Oh, hell!” Cleve shrugged his shoulders and offered to buy a drink. “You argue jist like Big Medicine does. Take a chance like that to save a danged Mexican, who o’rt to be hidin’ out from yore gun. I don’t sabe yuh.”
“I don’t know that Torres tried to kill me, Cleve. There’s a lot of folks that pack knives around here.”
“Aw, don’t argue with him,” advised Sleepy. “He’s got some awful queer notions in his head.”
“I ain’t goin’ to,” declared Cleve. “His notions may be queer, but his punch ain’t. I vote that we go home.”
“Home gits elected,” stated Musical. “C’mon.”
CHAPTER IX
FOUR MOUNTED MEN AND A PACKHORSE
Twenty-four hours later, four mounted men, leading a packed horse, rode slowly through the brushy, broken hills near the border. They traveled in single file, the front rider leading the pack animal, with no sound except the soft creak of leather, or the faint rip of brush against boot and chap.
The feet of the horses were muffled with sacking, which left no tracks and also deadened their footfalls. It was as if a phantom caravan passed through the dimly lighted hills. There was no trail, but the leader picked his way unerringly, heading for the dark mass of hills to the north, which separated them from Hawk Hole.