"My Gawd, no. This is a job requirin' brains."
"Say, lookit here, Racey—"
"When you get to the ranch tell Swing to come along soon as he can," interrupted Racey. "I'll be expecting him."
Tuckety-tuck! Tuckety-tuck! Somewhere beyond the cottonwood grove surrounding Moccasin Spring a galloping horse was coming in. A moment later horse and rider shot past the tail of the cottonwood grove, and bore down on the house.
"Marie!" exclaimed Racey.
"And riding one of my hosses," observed Mr. Saltoun.
At that instant Marie caught sight of the three men and swerved her mount toward them.
"They said at the Bar S you was here," panted the lookout, pulling up in front of Racey Dawson. "So I borrowed a fresh hoss and kep' on. Somethin's happened in Farewell, Racey. Swing Tunstall's shot."
"Downed?" Racey did not usually jump at conclusions, but Swing
Tunstall was his friend.
Marie shook her tousled head. "Nicked—shoulder and leg. But it ain't their fault he wasn't rubbed out."