“I don’t object in the least, but I want him to understand the agreement. I’ve got a posse waiting at Eldorado Springs, and as soon as I get back there we take the trail after you. Bucky O’Connor is at the head of the posse.”
York grinned. “We’ll be in Sonora then, Val. Think I’m going to wait and let you shoot off my other fingers?”
Collins fished from his vest pocket the papers he had taken from Scotty’s hat and from Webster. “I think I’ll be jogging along back to the springs. I reckon these are what you want.”
Leroy took them from him and handed them to Neil. “Don’t let us detain you any longer, Mr. Collins. I know you’re awful busy these days.”
The sheriff nodded a good day, cut down the hill on the slant, and disappeared in a mesquit thicket, from the other side of which he presently emerged astride a bay horse.
The two outlaws retraced their way to the foot of the hill and remounted their broncos.
“I want to say, cap, that I’m eating humble-pie in big chunks right this minute,” said Neil shamefacedly, scratching his curly poll and looking apologetically at his former chief. “I might ’a’ knowed you was straight as a string, all I’ve seen of you these last two years. If those coyotes say another word, cap—”
An exploding echo seemed to shake the mountain, and then another. Leroy swayed in the saddle, clutching at his side. He pitched forward, his arms round the horse’s neck, and slid slowly to the ground.
Neil was off his horse in an instant, kneeling beside him. He lifted him in his arms and carried him behind a great outcropping boulder.
“It’s that hound Collins,” he muttered, as he propped the wounded man’s head on his arm. “By God, I didn’t think it of Val.”