"Hands up!" came in the unmistakable bellow of Marvin, the 88 range-boss.
Rudd stood up, his hands above his head. The white object lay at his feet. Kate had halted her horse at Marvin's shout. She turned in her saddle and looked back.
"Keep a-goin', lady!" yelled Marvin. "You've done enough, you have! Now you wander, an' be quick about it!"
"Shut up, Marvin!" called Loudon. "You always did talk too much! Keep yore paws up, Rudd! This ain't nothin' like a rescue for yuh!"
"You know dat feller under de tree?" demanded Laguerre.
"Not the way you mean, Telescope," replied Loudon, without removing his eyes from Rudd. "He's one o' Blakely's gang—their range-boss."
"Geet up on you han's un knees, you feller," instantly ordered Laguerre, "un move back slow."
Loudon and Laguerre, covering their men, moved down the slope. The 88 puncher took his defeat well. The light-blue eyes above the snub nose met Loudon's stare serenely.
"Yo're a whizzer," observed Rudd. "I wouldn't play poker with yuh for a clay farm in Arkinsaw. Yo're too lucky."
"It's a habit I've got," said Loudon. "Now if I was you, Rudd, I'd lower my left hand nice an' easy, an' I'd sort o' work my gun-belt down till it slid over my knees, an' I could step out of it."