The cowpuncher slid down cautiously and left the lumber yard by way of the alley in the rear. He followed a barb-wire fence which bounded a pasture, and at the next corner crossed the street warily into United States territory. By alleys and back ways his feet took him to Johanson's stable. Noiselessly he crept toward it from the rear. Some one was inside saddling a horse. So much he could gather from the sounds. Was it Phil? Or was it some one getting ready for the pursuit? He moved a step nearer. A stick cracked beneath his foot.
The man saddling the bronco whirled, revolver in hand. "Who is it?" demanded a tense voice.
"All right, Phil." Steve moved forward, breathing easier. "Glad you made it. We'd better light a shuck out of here. They'll stir up the rurales to get after us, I reckon."
Already he was busy saddling Four Bits.
"Do you ... do you think I killed him?" jerked out the boy, a strangled sob of over-strained emotion in his throat.
"Don't know. He was asking for it, wasn't he?" answered Yeager in a matter-of-fact voice. He did not intend by an expression of sympathy to aid in any breakdown here. That could come later when they had put many miles between them and Arixico.
They led their horses out of the stable and swung to the saddles not a minute too soon. A man came running toward them.
"Hold on," he called. "Just a moment. I'm the sheriff. They say a man has been killed."
The fugitives put spurs to their broncos. The animals jumped to a canter. Over his shoulder Steve looked back. The sheriff was standing undecided. Before it penetrated his brain that these were the men he wanted they were out of range.
For a time they rode in silence except for the clicking of the hoofs. Yeager turned, his hand on the rump of his pony.