“I reckon that’s the end of the trail,” Dud drawled. “We’re real pleased to meet up with you, Mr. Houck. Last time I had the pleasure was a sorta special picnic in yore honor. You was ridin’ a rail outa Bear Cat an’ being jounced up considerable.”
“If he thinks of that—”
“He’ll think of it,” Dud cut in cheerfully. “He’s gritted his teeth a lot of times over that happenstance, Mr. Houck has. It tastes right bitter in his mouth every time he recollects it. First off, soon as he sees us, he’ll figure that his enemies have been delivered into his hand. It’ll be up to us to change his mind. If you’re all set, Sure-Shot, we’ll drift down an’ start the peace talk.”
Bob moistened his dry lips. “All set.”
They rode down the hillside, topped another rise, and descended into the draw where a camp was pitched.
A young fellow chopping firewood moved forward to meet them.
“There’s Powder River with the broncs,” Bob said in a low voice to his friend.
“Yes,” said Dud, and he swung from the saddle.
“’Lo, fellows. Where you headed for?” the wood-chopper asked amiably.
Two men were sitting by the fire. They waited, in an attitude of listening. Dusk had fallen. The glow of the fire lighted their faces, but the men who had just ridden up were in the gathering darkness beyond the circle lit by the flames.