“Right as the wheat. We’re blowing open the safe now,” Flandrau answered.
Moving closer, he saw that his questioner was the man in charge of the horses. Though he knew the voice, he could not put a name to its owner. But this was not the point that first occupied his mind. There were only four horses for five riders. Curly knew now that he had not been mistaken. Soapy had expected one of his allies to stay on the field of battle, had prepared for it from the beginning. The knowledge of this froze any remorse the young vaquero might have felt.
He pushed his revolver against the teeth of the horse wrangler.
“Don’t move, you bandy-legged maverick, or I’ll fill your hide full of holes. And if you want to keep on living padlock that mouth of yours.”
In spite of his surprise the man caught the point at once. He turned over his weapons without a word.
Curly unwound a rope from one of the saddles and dropped a loop round the neck of his prisoner. The two men mounted and rode out of the draw, the outlaw leading the other two horses. As soon as they reached the bluff above Flandrau outlined the next step in the program.
“We’ll stay here in the tornilla and see what happens, my friend. Unless you’ve a fancy to get lead poisoning keep still.”
“Who in Mexico are you?” the captured man asked.
“It’s your showdown. Skin off that mask.”
The man hesitated. His own revolver moved a few inches toward his head. Hastily he took off the mask. The moon shone on the face of the man called Dutch. Flandrau laughed. Last time they had met Curly had a rope around his neck. Now the situation was reversed.