"I'm sure hoping he ain't Dan Slike," Dawson said matter-of-factly.
"Me too. What——"
For the man behind the cutbank was climbing up among the cottonwoods—climbing up and walking out into plain sight of the man behind the pony. Not only that, but, the rifle across the crook of his elbow, nursing the butt with his right hand, he began to walk directly toward him. Still the man behind the pony did not fire.
"He's cashed all right," Billy remarked suddenly. "He looked so natural he fooled me for a minute. Let's go down across the creek. We're in luck to-day."
They ran down the reverse slope of the flat-topped hill, cut across the creek and approached the horses tied behind the windfall.
"I'm afraid we'll just naturally have to kill Dan, after all," grieved Billy. "He won't ever surrender. I——"
"Tell you," said Dawson, "loosen the cinches; then no matter which horse he tops he'll jerk himself down. Then maybe while he's all tangled up with himself and the saddle——"
"Catchem-alivoes ourselves," said Billy, with a hard grin, and tossed up the near fender of one of the saddles.
When both saddles had been carefully doctored, Billy and his friend retired modestly behind some red willows.
Soon they heard a scramble and a splash in the creek. Dan Slike was coming back. Through the screen of leaves they watched him coming toward them. They heard his voice. He was swearing a great string of oaths. Billy crouched a trifle lower. His six-shooter was out, but not cocked. Dawson had followed his example.