"Right sure of that, are you? Wouldn't mind my taking a look at that gun
of yours? You see, if it happens to be what you said it was, that
kinder lets you out."

Keller handed over the gun promptly. The cow-puncher broke it, extracted
a shell, and with his knife picked out the wad. Into his palm rolled a
dozen buckshot.

"Good enough! I told Buck he was barking up the wrong tree. Now, I'll go
back and have a powwow with him. I reckon you'll be willing to surrender
on guarantee of a square deal?"

"Sure--that's all I ask. I never met your friend--didn't know who he was
from Adam. I ain't got any option to shoot all the red-haided men I
meet. No, sir! You've followed a cross trail."

"Looks like. Still, it's blamed funny." Pesky scratched his shining
poll, and looked shrewdly at the other. "We certainly ran Mr.
Bushwhacker into the cañon. I'd swear to that. We was right on his
heels, though we couldn't see him very well. But he either come in here
or a hole in the ground swallowed him."

He waited tentatively for an answer, but none came other than the
white-toothed smile that met him blandly.

"I reckon you know more than you aim to tell, Mr. Keller," continued
Pesky. "Don't you figure it's up to you, if we let you out of this
thing, to whack up any information you've got? The kind of reptile that
kills from ambush don't deserve any consideration."