“It was a hard night,” agreed Cultus as they mounted.
“Where didja ever get that long-legged sorrel?”
“Won him from Harry Kelton. That is, he’s Harry’s end of the bet, and I think I’ve won him. My end of the bet is coyote bait back in Padre Canyon.”
“Yuh mean yuh bet a dead horse against a live one?”
“Shore.”
“Well, that’s a good bit if yuh lose. Now, where do we go?”
Instead of answering Cultus took the lead and they headed for the ranch-house. No one saw them coming. They dismounted at the front porch. The door was open and they could hear Rawls talking to the Chinaman in the kitchen; so they walked around the house and stepped into the kitchen without any warning.
Rawls was seated at a table, smoking a cigarette, while Chihuahua was washing dishes, and Rawls’s small eyes blinked open suddenly. His right elbow jerked back off the table, but stayed crooked, because he was looking down the muzzle of Cultus’s six-shooter.
Slowly he got to his feet, staring at Cultus.
“Watch the Chink,” warned Cultus. “Keep yore hands where they are, Rawls, and step around that table.”