“I see you made them jump,” commented the former captain audibly, seating himself comfortably on a rock. “It’s the only way you’ll get along with them. See that they come to time or pump lead into them. You’ll find there’s no middle way.”
Neil and Leroy had hardly passed beyond the rock-slide before the others, suspicion awake in their sodden brains, dodged after them on foot. For three miles they followed the broncos as the latter picked their way up the steep trail that led to the Dalriada Mine.
“If Mr. Collins is here, he’s lying almighty low,” exclaimed Neil, as he swung from his pony at the foot of the bluff from the brow of which the gray dump of the mine straggled down like a Titan’s beard.
“Right you are, Mr. Neil.”
York whirled, revolver in hand, but the man who had risen from behind the big boulder beside the trail was resting both hands on the rock before him.
“You’re alone, are you?” demanded York.
“I am.”
Neil’s revolver slid back into its holster. “Mornin’, Val. What’s new down at Tucson?” he said amiably.
“I understood I was to meet you alone, Mr. Leroy,” said the sheriff quickly, his blue-gray eyes on the former chief.
“That was the agreement, Mr. Collins, but it seems the boys are on the anxious seat about these little socials of ours. They’ve embraced the notion that I’m selling them. I hated to have them harassed with doubts, so I invited the new majordomo of the ranch to come with me. Of cou’se, if you object—”