“Don’t you worry about that. There ain’t gonna be any reward.”
The ranchman swung down from the saddle and descended from the bluff by way of a wooded gulch at the right. Ten minutes later, Black saw him emerge and begin to cross the rock slide toward the big boulders.
Presently Prowers stopped and shouted. “You fellow in the rocks, I wantta talk with you.”
There came no answer.
He moved cautiously a little closer, rifle ready for action. “We got you, fellow. Better come outa there an’ talk turkey. I don’t aim for to turn you over to the sheriff if you’re anyways reasonable,” he explained.
“Wotcha want with me?” a voice called from the rocks.
“Wantta have a pow-wow with you. Maybe you ’n’ me can do business together. No can tell.”
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Jake Prowers. No friend of Clint Reed if that’s what’s eatin’ you?”
After a delay of several seconds, a figure appeared and moved closer. The ranchman saw in the man’s hand the gleam of an automatic revolver.