“Up there in the piñons. Dud, you see he gets a good one. I’m wishin’ you luck, son. An’ I’ll say one thing right out in meetin’. You’re a better man than Lou Harshaw.” The cattleman’s hand gripped that of Dillon firmly.
“Shucks! Tha’s foolishness,” Bob murmured, embarrassed. “I’m scared stiff if you want to know.”
“I reckon that’s why you’re aimin’ for to make a target of yorese’f again,” Hawks suggested ironically. “Damn ’f I’d do it for the best man alive, let alone Jake Houck. No, sir. I’ll go a reasonable way, but I quit this side of suicide. I sure do.”
Over to the left rifles were still popping, but at this point of the ridge the firing had temporarily died down. Bob Dillon was the center of interest.
A second time his eye traveled over the group about him. “Last call for volunteers, boys. Anybody want to take a ride?”
Blister found in that eye some compelling quality of leadership. “Dawg-gone you, I’ll go,” his high falsetto piped.
Bob shook his head. “Not you, Blister. You’re too fat. We’re liable to have to travel fast.”
Nobody else offered himself as a sacrifice. There were men present who would have taken a chance for a friend, but they would not do it for Houck.
Dud went with Bob to the piñons. While Dillon saddled one horse, Hollister put the bridle on a second.
“What’s that for?” Bob asked.