Yerby and Rogers were waiting for them beneath the largest of the big pines.
“Better ’light, boys,” suggested the Texan. “I reckon we might as well kinder talk things over. We aim to bend the law consid’able to-night. If any of you lads is feelin’ tol’able anxious he’d better burn the wind back to camp. Old Man Trouble is right ahaid of us on the trail. Now’s the time to holler. No use bellyachin’ when it’s too late.”
“Think we’re quitters?” Larry demanded indignantly.
“No, son, I don’t allow you are. If I did you can bet them fifteen-dollar boots of yours that you or Sam Yerby one wouldn’t be here. What I’m sayin’ is that this is serious business. Take a good, square look at it before you-all go ahaid.”
“Sam’s quite right,” assented McCoy. “We’re going on a sheep raid, and against a desperate man. We’re going to kill his sheep—ride them down—stampede them. It’s not a nice business, and the law is dead against us. I don’t like it a bit, but I’m going because it is the only way to pound sense into Tait’s fool head. We’ve got to do it or shut up shop.”
Rowan spoke with a gravity that carried conviction. He was a man notable even in that country which bred strong men. His steel-gray eyes looked out unafraid upon a world still primitive enough to demand proofs of any man who aspired to leadership among his fellows. McCoy had long since demonstrated his fitness to lead. No man in the Fryingpan country doubted this. Hence his words now carried weight.
“I stand pat,” said Silcott.
Cole nodded agreement.
“Good enough. But understand this: We’re not man-killers. Tait is a bad lot, all right, but we’re not out to get him. We’re going to mask, surprise the camp, hold it up, do our business, then get out. Is that plain?”
“Plain as the Map of Texas brand,” assented Yerby with a grin. “Listens fine, too. But what have you arranged for Tait to be doing while you-all is making him a prisoner?”