“Son, it happens we got the wrong one. Our long-haired pard hyar—Mister Riggs—him with the big gun—he waltzes up with this sassy kid instead of the woman Beasley wanted.”
Burt snorted his disgust while Shady Jones, roundly swearing, pelted the smoldering camp-fire with stones. Then they all lapsed into surly silence. The object of their growing scorn, Riggs, sat a little way apart, facing none of them, but maintaining as bold a front as apparently he could muster.
Presently a horse shot up his ears, the first indication of scent or sound imperceptible to the men. But with this cue they all, except Wilson, sat up attentively. Soon the crack of iron-shod hoofs on stone broke the silence. Riggs nervously rose to his feet. And the others, still excepting Wilson, one by one followed suit. In another moment a rangy bay horse trotted out of the cedars, up to the camp, and his rider jumped off nimbly for so heavy a man.
“Howdy, Beasley?” was Anson's greeting.
“Hello, Snake, old man!” replied Beasley, as his bold, snapping black eyes swept the group. He was dusty and hot, and wet with sweat, yet evidently too excited to feel discomfort. “I seen your smoke signal first off an' jumped my hoss quick. But I rode north of Pine before I headed 'round this way. Did you corral the girl or did Riggs? Say!—you look queer!... What's wrong here? You haven't signaled me for nothin'?”
Snake Anson beckoned to Bo.
“Come out of the shade. Let him look you over.”
The girl walked out from under the spreading cedar that had hidden her from sight.
Beasley stared aghast—his jaw dropped.
“Thet's the kid sister of the woman I wanted!” he ejaculated.