“I’ll borry the use of a chaw if yuh got ary handy,” he called.
In the pocket of his chaps was a plug, but he somehow felt ashamed of mistrusting Kipp and wanted the old fellow to know that he was no longer covered.
Kipp tossed him a piece of tobacco, noticing the while that Tad’s Winchester now pointed in another direction. He grinned understandingly and they rode on down the steep trail.
Dark fell like a black blanket, to be followed by the pale moonlight. From the river bottom, miles below, the faint sound of shots echoed, reechoed, and died away, leaving a silence charged with a sinister foreboding that caused Tad Ladd’s eyes to narrow dangerously.
“Can’t we make better time down this —— trail, Kipp?” he growled. “I don’t like them shots.”
“Goin’ faster might mean a fall, Ladd. The more haste, the less speed, right now. We can’t do them boys much good if we gits crippled up.”
Tad, boiling with impatience, realized the truth of Kipp’s assertion. It seemed hours before the trail widened and they found themselves on level ground in the deep shadow of towering cottonwoods.
The bawling of a cow, hunting her calf. The distant crack of brush as a white-tail buck broke cover. The mournful call of a horned owl. Then silence.
“The corrals is nigh a mile from here,” whispered Kipp. “The cabins lays beyond them a hundred yards. It might be wise fer me tuh go on alone. They know that Pete Basset broke out and there may be a man er two scattered along the trail. Two of us ’ud look queer. If I was tuh go on alone, I’d sorter spring ary traps they had set fer visitors, savvy, and not git shot. Trust me?”
“Them shots we heered, Kipp. I don’t like tuh set here doin’ nothin’ while mebbeso Shorty’s needin’ me bad.”