“That will be Joe Kipp,” said Fox, his voice flatly emotionless. “For a man who has spent his life in the saddle, he sits a horse badly.”
The white-handled gun went back in its holster. Then Fox rode to the cottonwood and with an abrupt movement, jerked Hank Basset’s sign from its place on the tree trunk.
“You’ll have no further need of it, Basset, and the thing was an eyesore. The spelling was miserable. Should Kipp shoot better than he rides, bury me on the LF side of the tree.”
Midway between the tree and the herd, Joe Kipp came on, his horse at a running walk. Fox, riding to meet him, halted for a moment to call over his shoulder to Hank.
“A man may be a scoundrel, Basset, but still not be a coward.”
Then he rode on.
Those that watched saw the two men ride toward each other. Saw the gap between them lessen. Two puffs of white smoke appeared at precisely the same instant. Both men swayed drunkenly in the saddle. The horses, startled, leaped forward. The riders slipped to the ground to lie quietly, but ten feet apart.
Tad was the first to reach the spot. He swung from his saddle to bend over Kipp. Fox, a red smear oozing from the hole between his eyes, lay face upward, his gun still clutched in his lifeless hand.
“Is Kipp dead?” panted Shorty, riding up.
Tad looked up, shaking his head. “Creased. He’ll come to directly. Fox’s bullet done parted his hair. The sun must’a’ somehow sp’iled the buzzard’s aim.”