Bull did not hesitate to obey, for the broad, cold blade of a bowie rested lightly against the back of his neck. Bull swayed a little where he stood.
"I got yore rifle," resumed the whisperer. "Walk away now. Yo're headin' about right. Don't make too much noise."
Bull did not make too much noise. In fact, he made hardly any. It is safe to say that he never progressed more quietly in his life. The man with the bowie steered him to a safe haven behind a fat white boulder half buried in sumac.
"Si'down," requested the captor in a conversational tone. "We can be right comfortable here."
"Dawson!" breathed the captive.
"Took you a long time to find it out," said Racey Dawson. "Si'down, I said," he added, sharply.
Bull obeyed, his back against the rock, and was careful not to lower his hands. Racey hunkered down and sat on a spurless heel. The rifle was under his knee. He had exchanged the bowie for a sixshooter. The firearm was trained in the general direction of Bull's stomach.
Racey smiled widely. He felt very chipper and pleased with himself. He was managing the affair well, he thought.
"You show up right plain against that white rock," he remarked. "If yo're figuring to gamble with me, think of that."
"Whatcha want?" demanded Bull, sullenly.