“Say, you old double-decked pirate,” he called joyfully to Dodson, “you said we could do it—­you got a head for financing that knocks the horns off of anything in Arizona.”

“What are we going to do about a hoss for you, Bob?  We ain’t got long to wait here.  They’ll be on our trail before daylight in the mornin’.”

“Oh, I guess that cayuse of yourn’ll carry double for a while,” answered the sanguine Bob.  “We’ll annex the first animal we come across.  By jingoes, we made a haul, didn’t we?  Accordin’ to the marks on this money there’s $30,000—­$15,000 apiece!”

“It’s short of what I expected,” said Shark Dodson, kicking softly at the packages with the toe of his boot.  And then he looked pensively at the wet sides of his tired horse.

“Old Bolivar’s mighty nigh played out,” he said, slowly.  “I wish that sorrel of yours hadn’t got hurt.”

“So do I,” said Bob, heartily, “but it can’t be helped.  Bolivar’s got plenty of bottom—­he’ll get us both far enough to get fresh mounts.  Dang it, Shark, I can’t help thinkin’ how funny it is that an Easterner like you can come out here and give us Western fellows cards and spades in the desperado business.  What part of the East was you from, anyway?”

“New York State,” said Shark Dodson, sitting down on a boulder and chewing a twig.  “I was born on a farm in Ulster County.  I ran away from home when I was seventeen.  It was an accident my coming West.  I was walkin’ along the road with my clothes in a bundle, makin’ for New York City.  I had an idea of goin’ there and makin’ lots of money.  I always felt like I could do it.  I came to a place one evenin’ where the road forked and I didn’t know which fork to take.  I studied about it for half an hour, and then I took the left-hand.  That night I run into the camp of a Wild West show that was travellin’ among the little towns, and I went West with it.  I’ve often wondered if I wouldn’t have turned out different if I’d took the other road.”

“Oh, I reckon you’d have ended up about the same,” said Bob Tidball, cheerfully philosophical.  “It ain’t the roads we take; it’s what’s inside of us that makes us turn out the way we do.”

Shark Dodson got up and leaned against a tree.

“I’d a good deal rather that sorrel of yourn hadn’t hurt himself, Bob,” he said again, almost pathetically.

“Same here,” agreed Bob; “he was sure a first-rate kind of a crowbait.  But Bolivar, he’ll pull us through all right.  Reckon we’d better be movin’ on, hadn’t we, Shark?  I’ll bag this boodle ag’in and we’ll hit the trail for higher timber.”

Bob Tidball replaced the spoil in the bag and tied the mouth of it tightly with a cord.  When he looked up the most prominent object that he saw was the muzzle of Shark Dodson’s .45 held upon him without a waver.

“Stop your funnin’,” said Bob, with a grin.  “We got to be hittin’ the breeze.”

“Set still,” said Shark.  “You ain’t goin’ to hit no breeze, Bob.  I hate to tell you, but there ain’t any chance for but one of us.  Bolivar, he’s plenty tired, and he can’t carry double.”