“Don’t forget, Don. Turn her over to Clint with my compliments. An’ you brought her home soon as we found her. No explanations. Let him take it or leave it.”
Black nodded. “I getcha. It’ll be thataway.”
After he had swung to the saddle he lifted the child to the back of the horse. She was still sobbing.
“Don’cha, honey,” he soothed. “I’m takin’ you right home to yore paw. That bad man ain’t ’a’ gonna hurt you none.”
He rode out of the cañon and across the hills. Nobody knew this country better than Black. All his life he had ridden it. Following the path of least resistance, he deflected many times from the airline that led to the Diamond Bar K; but none could have traveled a shorter distance to reach it.
Within the hour he was jogging down into Paradise Valley.
A cloud of dust in the distance caught his eye. It was moving swiftly along a road toward him.
“Some folks in a powerful hurry,” he murmured aloud, and guessed at once the reason for their haste.
His fingers closed for an instant on the butt of a revolver to make sure there would be no hitch in the draw in case of need.
As the riders drew near, he held up the palm of his hand to stop them. He counted eight. Clint Reed and Lon Forbes were in the lead. Betty was among the others.