“Don't know, dad,” the answer came, young, warm, and tremulous.
“Hello! There's a kid there,” the Texan decided. Aloud, he asked quietly: “What's the row, gentlemen?”
One of the figures whirled—it was the boyish one, crouched behind a dead horse—and fired at him.
“Hold on, sonny! I'm a stranger. Don't make any more mistakes like that.”
“Who are you?”
“Steve Fraser they call me. I just arrived from Texas. Wait a jiff, and I'll come down and explain.”
He stayed for no permission, but swung from the saddle, trailed the reins, and started down the slope. He could hear a low-voiced colloquy between the two dark figures, and one of them called roughly:
“Hands up, friend! We'll take no chances on yo'.”
The Texan's hands went up promptly, just as a bullet flattened itself against a rock behind him. It had been fired from the bank of the dry wash, some hundred and fifty yards away.
“That's no fair! Both sides oughtn't to plug at me,” he protested, grinning.