“Then I guess we got no kick,” said Pete.

“I ain’t kickin’.  I’m jest puttin’ you wise.”

“I ain’t forgittin’, Ed.”

Pete turned, following Brevoort’s gaze.  The man they were talking about was in sight and riding hard.  Presently Brent was close enough to nod to them.  Although he had ridden far and fast, he was as casual as sunshine.  Neither in his voice nor his bearing was the least trace of fatigue.

“I’m goin’ to need you,” he told Pete.  “We’re short of hands right now.  If you need anything over in the line shack, go git it and come along down after Ed and me.”

Pete took the hint and left Brevoort and Brent to ride to the house together while he rode over to the shack and warmed up some coffee and beans.  In an hour he was at the house.  A thoroughbred stood at the hitching-rail.  Pete noticed that the animal carried Brevoort’s saddle.  Evidently there was to be more hard riding.  As Pete entered the big room, he also noticed that Brevoort was heavily armed, and carried an extra belt of cartridges.  Brent was examining a rifle when Pete stepped in.  “You may need this,” said Brent, handing the rifle and scabbard to Pete.  “Go over to the bunk-house and get another belt and some shells.”

When Pete returned, Blue Smoke was in the corral and his own saddle was on a big bay that looked like a splendid running-mate for Brevoort’s mount.  Pete busied himself slinging the rifle, curious as to what his new venture would or could be, yet too proud to show that he was interested.

Brevoort, hitching up his belt, swung to his horse.  Without hesitation Pete followed.  Well-fed, eager and spirited, the horses lunged out into the open and settled into a long, swinging stride—­a gait that was new to Pete, accustomed as he was to the shorter, quick action of the cow-pony.

They rode south, across the sunlit expanse of emptiness between the hacienda and the line.  A few hundred yards beyond the fence, Brevoort reined in.  “Mexico,” he said, gesturing round about.  “Our job is to ride to the Ortez rancho and get that outfit movin’ up this way.”

“Goin’ to turn the cattle over to ’em?” queried Pete.

“Yes—­and that quick they won’t know they got ’em.  It’s a big deal, if she goes through.  If she don’t, it’s like to be the finish of the Olla.”

“Meanin’ if the T-Bar-T and the Concho gits busy, there’s like to be some smoke blowin’ down this way?”

“The same.  Recollect what I was tellin’ you this mornin’.”

“About Brent sendin’ a man into a fight?”

“Yes.  But I wasn’t figurin’ on provin’ it to you so quick,” drawled the Texan.  “Hold your horse down to a walk.  We’ll save speed for a spell.  No, I wasn’t figurin’ on this.  You see, when I hired out to Brent, I knew what I was doin’—­so I told him I’d jest earn my pay on the white side of the border—­but no Mexico for mine.  That was the understandin’.  Now he goes to work and sends you and me down into this here country on a job which is only fit for a Greaser.  I’m goin’ to see it through, but I done made my last ride for the Olla.”