"This feller ain't Jack Murray," cried the perplexed Mr. Wingo. "It's Skinny Shindle."
"Looks like we must have missed a bet somewhere," said Dawson. "Plugged him plumb center, didn't he?" he added, alluding to the red-and-blue bullet hole squarely between the staring eyes.
"I got the other sport," snarled Slike.
"Where's Jack Murray?" demanded Billy.
"What difference does that make?" flung back Dan Slike.
It was evident that Slike was not in a confiding mood.
Nobody said anything further. They left Skinny Shindle lying beside the little creek and went on to where the other dead man lay beside the embers of the branding fire.
"That's a TU horse," said Dawson, glancing at the brand on the pony's hip.
Billy turned the dead man face upward. He whistled. "Here's an odd number, Johnny. This feller is Simon Reelfoot's foreman. You've heard me speak of that low-lived persimmon, Simon Reelfoot. This boy is named Conley. Been with Reelfoot for years. I'd sure like to know why he's riding for the T.U."
Came then a puncher riding on his occasions. At sight of the three men and the calf and the fire, he spurred toward them. A hundred yards away he suddenly pulled up and slipped to the far side of his horse.