“I got him—­twict,” said Pete.

“Twict?  Say, Pete, are you loco?  What’s ailin’ you, anyhow?”

“Nothin’.  Me and Gary just had it out.  He’s over there—­in the brush.”

“Gary!”

“Yes.  I reckon I got him.”

“Hell!” The ruddy color sank from Andy’s face.  He had supposed that Gary and Cotton were by this time tracking the strayed horses toward the T-Bar-T.  “Where’s Cotton?” he asked.

“I told him to fan it.”

“But, Pete—!”

“I know.  They’s no use talkin’, Andy.  I come back to tell you—­and to git your rope.  Mine’s over by Gary.”

“What you goin’ to do, Pete?”

“Me?  Why, I’m goin’ to drift as soon as I can git a saddle on Blue.  Cotton he seen the shootin’—­but that don’t do me no good.  He’ll swear that I pulled first.  He’d say ’most anything—­he was too scared to know what come off.  Gary’s hand was on his gun when I let him have it—­twict.”

Andy noticed then Pete’s torn sleeve.  “I reckon that’s right.  Look at that!”

Pete turned his head and glanced at his sleeve.  “Never knowed he shot—­it was all done so quick.”  He seemed to awaken suddenly to the significance of his position.  “I’ll take your rope and go git Smoke.  Then I’m goin’ to drift.”

“But where?”

“You’re my pardner, Andy, but I ain’t sayin’.  Then you won’t have to lie.  You’ll have to tell Jim—­and tell him it was like I said—­if Gary come at me, that would be different.  I’m leavin’ it to you to square me with Jim Bailey.”  Pete picked up the rope and started toward the spring.

“I’m goin’ with you,” said White, “and ketch my hoss.  I aim to see you through with this.”

In an hour they were back at the cabin with the horses.  Andy White glanced at his watch.  “Cotton is afoot—­for I seen his hoss over there.  But he can make it to the T-Bar-T in three hours.  That’ll give us a start of two hours, anyhow.  I don’t know which way you aim to ride, but—­”

“I’m playin’ this hand alone,” stated Pete as he saddled Blue Smoke.  “No use your gittin’ in bad.”

White made no comment, but cinched up his pony.  Pete stepped to him and held out his hand.  “So-long, Andy.  You been a mighty square pardner.”

“Nothin’ doin’!” exclaimed Andy.  “I’m with you to the finish.”

“Nope, Andy.  If we was both to light out, you’d be in it as bad as me.”

“Then what do you say if we both ride down to Concho and report to the sheriff?”

“I tried that onct—­when they killed Pop Annersley.  I know how that would work.”

“But what you goin’ to do?”

“I’m ridin’,” and Pete swung to his horse.  Blue Smoke pitched across the clearing under the spur and rein that finally turned him toward the south.  Pete’s sombrero flew off as he headed for the timber.  Andy, reining ’round his horse, that fretted to follow, swung down and caught up Pete’s hat on the run.  Pete had pulled up near the edge of the timber.  Andy, as he was about to give Pete his hat, suddenly changed it for his own.  “For luck!” he cried, as Pete slackened rein and Blue Smoke shot down the dim forest trail.