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Updated: June 24, 2025
"True!" ejaculated the orator. "Let us question the arrow!" And, stepping forward, he drew the shaft from the body of the Pane, and held it aloft. The moment the eyes of the warriors fell upon its barbed head, an exclamation of astonishment passed from their lips. The head was of iron! No Waco ever used such a weapon as that!
At the crossing of a stream Carlos could detect the prints of moccasins in the sand. There were still some of the party afoot then, though, no doubt, the stolen mulada had mounted a good many. Carlos rode on with more caution than ever. He was half-way to the Waco village, and still the Pane trail led in that direction. Surely these could not have passed without finding it?
Here there was another pause, but neither voice nor movement answered the challenge. The cibolero was silent with the rest. He did not comprehend what was said, as the speech was in the Waco tongue, and he understood it not. He guessed that it related to the fallen chief and his enemies, but its exact purport was unknown to him.
Who are you, anyway?" "That's my business. He knows me." "This guy wants to talk to you," called the sentinel. Lorry stepped across the street. He stopped suddenly as he discovered the man to be Waco, the tramp. "Is it all right?" asked the sentinel, addressing Lorry. "I guess so. What do you want?" "It's about Jim Waring," said Waco. "I seen you when the sheriff rode up to our camp.
"'It's mebby a week after this exultation of Easy Aaron's, an' Waco Anderson an' the others is in from the ranges. Yellow City is onusual vivacious an' lively. You-all may jedge of the happy prosperity of local feelin' when I assoores you that the average changed in at farobank each evenin' ain't less than twenty thousand dollars.
Waco saw Pat's hand flash to his side, then fumble on the seat. "I'm payin' the Kid's debt," said High Chin, and, laughing, he threw shot after shot into the defenseless body of his old enemy. Waco saw Pat slump forward, catch himself, and finally topple from the seat. As the reins slipped from his fingers the ponies lunged up the arroyo. Waco crouched, clutching the foot-rail.
He borrys a hoss from the corral, packs the Texas Statootes an' his extra shirt in the war-bags, an' with that the only real law wolf who ever makes his lair in Yellow City, p'ints sadly no'thward an' is seen no more. As he's about to ride away, Easy Aaron turns to me. He's sort o' got the notion I ain't so bad as Waco, Shoestring, an' the rest.
The Panes could not be far off they might still be in ambush between him and the Waco camp, or halted among the hills. The cibolero had but little fear of meeting one or two of them. He rode a horse in which he had full confidence; and he knew that no Pane could overtake him; but he might be surrounded by numbers, and intercepted before he could reach the Waco lodges.
A mile beyond, the ranch road merged with the main-traveled highway running east and west. He spoke to the horses. They broke into a fast trot. Waco, gripping the seat, stared straight ahead. Why had Pat laid that gun on the seat? A thin, gray veil drifted across the sun. From the northwest a light wind sprang up and ran across the mesa, whipping the bunch-grass.
The tramp Waco, drifting south through Prescott, fell in with a quartet of his kind camped along the railroad track. He stumbled down the embankment and "sat in" beside their night fire. He was hungry. He had no money, and he had tramped all that day. They were eating bread and canned peaches, and had coffee simmering in a pail. They asked no questions until he had eaten.
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