“I can’t help it,” chuckled Clayton. “The look on your face, when you saw that shotgun! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
“Is that so! Well, I didn’t see you do anythin’, except reach for the sky.”
“An empty gun, too! Whooee-e-e! Say, Slim, I never knowed how danged pretty that girl was until now. She’s a bird.”
“Yeah, and she needs her wings clipped. What had we better do, Mark? We can’t let the old man destroy the evidence. It would be like him to drag every steer out of sight.”
“Let’s go and get Roarin’ Rigby. We can come back with him and see that he does what we want him to do. I know I’d like to have my gun but it’ll be dark pretty quick.”
“That’s the worst of it. Wonder who this is comin’.”
Two horsemen were coming up the road from the ford, and the fading sunlight showed them to be riding a tall gray and a sorrel.
“Pretty tall man on that gray,” observed Regan.
“Plenty big on the sorrel,” Clayton. “I don’t sabe that tall gray, Slim.”
As the riders drew closer, the two men at the gate recognized Franklyn Moran as the rider of the sorrel.