“Mebby you think we’re takin’ your word about Young Pete—­and the shootin’??

“Why not?”

“We can make you talk!” threatened Simpson.

“I reckon you could,” said Andy easily.  “Four to one—­and my gun hangin’ over there on the saddle-horn.  But suppose you did?  How are you goin’ to’ know I’ll talk straight or lie to you?  You ain’t throwed any big scare into me yet”—­and Andy stooped and caught up his hat and thrust his finger through the hole in the crown—­“because I ain’t done nothin’ to be scared about.  I ain’t shot nobody and I ain’t seen nobody get shot.  Cotton could ‘a’ told you that.”

“That’s right,” asserted Houck reluctantly.  “White here had nothin’ to do with the shootin’.  Cotton said that.  We lost some time trailin’ you”—­Houck turned to Andy—­“but we don’t aim to lose any more.  Which way did young Pete ride?”

Andy laughed.  “You would say I lied if I told you.  But I’m goin’ to tell you straight.  Young Pete took the old Ranger Trail south, through the timber.  And I want to tell you gentlemen he was goin’ like hell a-smokin’ when I seen him last.  Mebby you don’t believe that?  And there’s somethin’ else—­that old Ranger Trail forks three times this side of Cienegas—­and she forks twice afore she crosses the line.  She’s a dim trail when she’s doin’ her best acrost the rocks, and they’s places in her where she’s as blind as a dead ox.  Water is as scarce as cow-punchers at a camp-meetin’ and they ain’t no feed this side of Showdown.  And Showdown never tore its shirt tryin’ to be polite to strangers.  I been there.  ’Course, when it comes to rustlers and cardsharps and killers—­but you fellas know how that is.  I—­”

“Come on, boys,” said Houck, reining round.  “White here is puttin’ up a talk to hold us—­and Young Pete’s usin’ the time.”

Andy watched them ride away, a queer expression lighting his face.  “They hate like the Ole Scratch to believe me—­and they are hatin’ themselves for havin’ to.”

He pulled off Pete’s hat and turned it over, gazing at the two little round holes curiously.  “Pete, old scout,” he said, smiling whimsically, “here’s hopin’ they never come closer to gettin’ you than they did to gettin’ me.  Keep a-ridin’—­for you sure got to be that ‘Ridin’ Kid from Powder River’ this journey—­and then some.”

Andy turned the black sombrero round in his hands.  “All this here hocus comes of the killin’ of a old man that never lifted a finger against nobody—­and as game a kid as ever raked a hoss with a spur.  But one killin’ always means more.  I ain’t no gunman—­or no killer.  But, by cracky! some of my ideas has changed since I got that hole in my hat.  I wisht I’d ‘a’ rode with Pete.  I wouldn’t ask nothin’ better right now than to stand back to back with him, out in the open somewhere and let ’em come!  Because why?  Because the only law that a man’s got in this country is hisself—­and if he’s right, why, crossin’ over with his gun explainin’ his idees ain’t the worst way to go.  Anyhow, it ain’t any worse than gettin’ throwed from a bronc and gettin’ his neck broke or gettin’ stomped out in a stampede.  Them’s just regular, common ways of goin’ out.  I just wonder how Pete is makin’ it?”