The cow-puncher tied the red bandanna from his neck round the end of his
revolver, and shoved it above the rock in front of him.

"Flag of truce!" he shouted.

"All right. Come right along. Better leave your gun behind," Keller
called back.

Pesky waddled forward--a short, thick-set, bow-legged man in chaps,
spurs, flannel shirt, and white sombrero. When he took off this last, as
he did now, it revealed a head bald as a billiard ball.

"How're they coming?" he inquired genially of the besieged man, as he
rounded the rock barricade.

Larrabie's steel eyes relaxed to a hint of a friendly smile. He knew
this type of man like a brother.

"Fine and dandy here. Hope you're well yourself, seh."

"Tol'able. Buck's up on his ear, o' course. Can't blame him, can you?
Most any man would, with that kind of a pill sent to his address so
sudden by special delivery. Wasn't that some inconsiderate of you, Mr.
Keller?"

"I thought I explained it was another party did that."

Pesky rolled a cigarette and lit it.