"We got here without no trouble," Loudon observed in a loud tone. "We're goin' back the way we came. We'll hope that nobody turns loose any artillery from the sidewalk. If they do you fellahs won't live a minute."
No shots disturbed the almost pastoral peace of Farewell as prisoners and guards retraced their steps. Opposite the sheriff's shack the convoy began to lag.
"Keep a-goin'," admonished Loudon. "We don't like to part with yuh just yet."
The prisoners were driven to where a tall spruce grew beside the Paradise Bend trail, three miles from Farewell.
"Yuh can stop here," said Loudon. "We'll drop yore guns an' belts a couple o' miles farther on. We're goin' back to the Bend, an' we'll tell the boys what a rattlin' reception yuh give me an' my friend. If yuh see Sam Blakely, Block, don't forget to tell him I was a heap disappointed not to find him to-day. So long, sports, yo're the easiest bunch o' longhorns I ever seen."
Loudon laughed in the sheriff's blood-caked face, and set spurs to his horse.
"How far we go, huh?" queried Laguerre, when a fold in the ground concealed the tall spruce.
"About four mile. There's a draw runnin' southeast. We'll ride down that. We'd ought to be at the Cross-in-a-box round two o'clock. We could turn off right after we dump this assortment o' cannons. They won't follow us to see whether I told 'em the truth or not. They'll just keep right on believin' we're a-headin' for the Bend hot-foot."
"I guess dey weel. Say, my frien', why deed'n you geet dat warran' from de sher'f un mak heem eat eet? I would, me."
"I don't want to let on I know anythin' about the warrant. Block wants to spring it nice an' easy. All right—let him."