His lips were sealed. Even if he were not under heavy obligations to her
he could no more save himself at the expense of this brown sylph than he
could have testified against his own mother.

"All right. If you feel lucky, come on. You'll get me, of course, but it
may prove right expensive," he said quietly.

"That's all right. We're footing our end of the bill," Pesky retorted.

By this time, he and Weaver had dismounted, and were sheltered behind
rocks. Already bullets were beginning to spit back and forth, though the
flankers had not yet got into action.

"Durn his hide, I hate like sin to puncture it," Pesky told his boss. "I
tell you we're making a mistake, Buck. This fellow's a pure--he ain't
any hired killer. You can tie to that."

"He's the man that pumped a bullet into my arm from ambush. That's
enough for me," the cattleman swore.

"No use being revengeful, especially if it happens he ain't the man. By
his say-so, that's a shotgun he's carrying. Loaded with buckshot, he
claims. What hit you was a bullet from a Winchester, or some such gun.
Mighty easy to prove whether he's lying."

"We'll be able to prove it afterward, all right."

"What's the matter with proving it now? I don't stand for any murder
business myself. I'm going to find out what's what."