“The Bar Double M boys. They just reached town.”
“Put up that gun, Mac, and move into your clothes immediate,” ordered Curly. Then to Davis: “Go on. Unload the rest. What do they know?”
“They inquired for you and your friend here down at the Legal Tender. The other members of your party they could only guess at.”
“Have we got a chance to make our getaway?” Mac asked.
Davis nodded. “Slide out through the kitchen, cut into the alley, and across lots to the corral. We’ll lock the door and I’ll hold them here long as I can.”
“Good boy, Slats. If there’s a necktie party you’ll get the first bid,” Curly grinned.
Slats looked at him, cold and steady. Plainer than words he was telling his former friend that he would not joke with a horse thief. For the sake of old times he would save him if he could, but he would call any bluffs about the whole thing being a lark.
Curly’s eyes fell away. It came to him for the first time that he was no longer an honest man. Up till this escapade he had been only wild, but now he had crossed the line that separates decent folks from outlaws. He had been excited with liquor when he joined in this fool enterprise, but that made no difference now. He was a rustler, a horse thief. If he lived a hundred years he could never get away from the disgrace of it.
Not another word was said while they hurried into their clothes. But as Curly passed out of the door he called back huskily. “Won’t forget what you done for us, Slats.”
Again their eyes met. Davis did not speak, but the chill look on his face told Flandrau that he had lost a friend.