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In the Washington County War just ended, this young fellow had been the leading gunman of the Snaith-McRobert faction. If the current rumors were true he was now making an easy living in the chaparral. The rider drew up, nodded a greeting to Wrayburn, and grinned with cool nonchalance at Webb. He knew from report in what esteem he was held by the owner of the Flying V Y brand.
I'm on the bronc Sanders rides, and you an' I are horse-thieves now as well as killers. This certainly gets us in bad." "I've a notion to turn back yet," said Jim, with the irritability of a sick man. "How in Mexico did he happen to light on Snaith-McRobert stock? Looks like he might have found somethin' else for us." "Bud has too much imagination," admitted Prince ruefully.
Perhaps he was in process of doing that now. Bud Proctor, a tall young stripling, met Prince on the porch of the hotel. "Buck Sanders was here to see you, sheriff," the boy said. Since the days when he had been segundo of the Snaith-McRobert outfit Sanders had declined in the world.
He's a sulky, revengeful brute, an' the old man has pulled him up with a tight rein more'n once." "What do you mean trouble with the Snaith-McRobert outfit?" "That's a long story. The bad feelin' started soon after the war when Snaith an' the old man were brandin' mavericks. It kind of smouldered along for a while, then broke out again when both of them began to bid on Government beef contracts.
The eyes of the boy began to shine. "Crickey. You just try me, Mr. Prince." "All right. I will. But first I must know that you are our friend." "Cross my heart an' hope to die. Honest, I am." "I believe you, Bud. Well, the Snaith-McRobert outfit intend to lynch me an' my friend to-night." The face of the boy became all eyes. He was too astonished to speak. "Our only chance is to get out of town.
There's been some shootin' back an' forth an' there's liable to be a whole lot more. The Lazy S M that's the Snaith-McRobert brand claims the whole Pecos country by priority. The old man ain't recognizin' any such fool title. He's got more 'n thirty thousand head of cattle there an' he'll fight for the grass if he has to.
In order to rest him as much as possible, Webb put him in charge of the calf wagon which followed the drag and picked up any wobbly-legged bawlers dropped on the trail. During the trip Jim discovered for himself the truth of what Billie had said, that the settlers with small ranches were lined up as allies of the Snaith-McRobert faction.
But then he's game enough, too, for that matter. I've seen him fight like a pack of catamounts. Outside of that I've got a hunch that he's crooked as a dog's hind leg. Mebbe I'm wrong, I'm tellin' you how he strikes me. If I was Homer Webb, right now when trouble is comin' up with the Snaith-McRobert outfit, I'd feel some dubious about Joe.
One of these days there's sure goin' to be sudden trouble." "I'm no gunman," protested Clanton indignantly. "I hired out to the old man to punch cows. Whyfor should I take any chances with the Snaith-McRobert outfit when I ain't got a thing in the world against them?" "No, you're no gunman," grinned his friend in amiable derision. "Jimmie-Go-Get-'Em is a quiet little Sunday-go-to-meetin' kid.
He was a tinhorn gambler of Los Portales and for reasons of his own foregathered with the Snaith-McRobert faction. "Look here, young fellow. You may or may not be in this thing deep. I'm willin' to give you the benefit of the doubt if my friends are. I'd hate to see you bumped off when you didn't do any of the killin'. All we want is justice. This is a square town.
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