The one man kept a rifle trained on Nelson, while the other dismounted, climbed up and removed Nelson’s revolver.
June’s face was pale, but she kept her nerve when this masked man turned to her.
“Git out of the wagon,” he ordered gruffly.
There was nothing else for her to do. These men had killed one man already. She climbed down and he indicated his horse.
“Climb on.”
She looked at Nelson, who was looking straight ahead, his lips compressed tightly, both hands held rigidly above his head. June could ride. She climbed into the saddle, hampered by her skirts, and the other bandit laughed.
“Good lookin’ squaw,” he observed.
The other man turned and walked around the wagon to where Herd’s body lay. He picked him up, carried him to the rear of the wagon and dumped him unceremoniously over the tailgate into the wagon-box. He came back and motioned to Nelson.
“Turn around and drive back,” he said hoarsely. “Take all the time yuh need. A little hurry might ruin yore health.”
“And yuh might tell old Reber that he ain’t runnin’ this valley yet a while,” added the other. “The road from here to Tomahawk won’t be healthy for him and his men, so they don’t need to blame us if they git what this feller got.”