Me and Hashknife drops out of our saddles and slips our rifles loose. We didn’t come there hunting for trouble, but if it showed up we’d be ready.
“Buddy, you get down in the brush,” orders Hashknife, pointing to a thick clump. “You get down low and wait for us.”
“Betcha,” says Buddy. “Me wait.”
The little jigger dives down into the brush like a rabbit and then me and Hashknife separates a few feet apart and slips down to the cabin—or rather toward the cabin, ’cause just about the time we hit the flat ground a hunk of lead whispers so close to my head that I heard what it said. We flops down and waits awhile.
The brush is kinda thick and we can only see one side of the cabin. We lay there quite a while, but there ain’t no more shots. We kinda snakes along until we works up beside the cabin, where we listens for a while, but can’t hear a thing. Hashknife gets to his feet, takes out his six-shooter for close work and walks to the door end of the cabin, with me on his heels. The door is shut. Hashknife gives it a kick and it swings open. Inside it is dark, being as there’s only one window, and that dirty.
We steps inside, and looks around, and as soon as our eyes gets used to the dusk we sees that there’s a man laying on the bed.
It’s the old preacher that rode the mule, and he’s sure hog-tied to a fare-thee-well, and has a rag shoved between his teeth.
Hashknife takes out his knife and starts to cut the ropes, but stops and listens. Then he jumps for the door, with me behind him.
“The horses!” gasps Hashknife. “I heard them rollin’ rocks. There they go!”
Up over the peak of a hogback goes our two horses, with a man in each saddle, and one of ’em is packing Buddy. Hashknife throws up his .45-70 Winchester.