"They're going to come clean, these two," said Caney cheerfully. "We
told 'em if they'd turn state's evidence they'd probable get off
light. Reckon we're going to round up the whole gang. Say, I thought
you'd hiked on to Garfield. I started back to your little old mine,
cut into your sign, and was followin' you up."
"Yes, I did start down all right. But I met up with a lad down here a
stretch and give him my papers and shackled on back. Damn your saddle
thieves, anyway--I sure wanted to go back and paw round that claim of
mine. My pack horse is back there hobbled, too."
"Aw, nemmine your pack horse. He'll make out till mornin'."
Ahead of them the wagon road was gouged into the side of an overhang
of promontory, under a saddleback pass to northward. A dim trail
curved away toward the pass. Adam's eye followed the trail. Caney's
horse fell back a step.
"There's where I found my mail carrier," said Adam; "up on top of that
little thumb. A Bar Cross waddy, he was--brandin' a calf."
Caney fired three times. The muzzle of his forty-five was almost
between Adam's shoulders. Adam fell sidewise to the left, he clutched
at his rifle, he pulled it with him as he fell. His foot hung in the
stirrup, his horse dragged him for a few feet. Then his foot came
free. He rolled over once, and tried to pull his rifle up. Then he lay
still with his face in the dust.