Red looked off toward the south for the tenth time and for the tenth
time thought that his friend might return. "He's a son-of-a-gun," he
soliloquized.
His companion looked up: "He shore is, an' he's right about this
rustler business, too. But we'll look around for a day or so an' then
yu raise dust for th' Lake. I'll go back to th' ranch an' get things
primed, so there'll be no time lost when we get th' word."
"I'm sorry I went an' said what I did about me takin' th' trail he
was a-scared of," confessed Red, after a pause. "Why, he ain't
a-scared of nothin'."
"He got back at yu about them watermelons, so what's th'
difference?" Asked Frenchy. "He don't owe yu nothin'."
An hour later they searched the Devil's Rocks, but found no
rustlers. Filling their canteens at a tiny spring and allowing their
mounts to drink the remainder of the water, they turned toward Hell
Arroyo, which they reached at nightfall. Here, also, their search
availed them nothing and they paused in indecision. Then Frenchy
turned toward his companion and advised him to ride toward the Lake in
the night when it was comparatively cool.
Red considered and then decided that the advice was good. He rolled
a cigarette, wheeled and faced the east and spurred forward: "So
long," he called.
"So long," replied Frenchy, who turned toward the south and departed
for the ranch.
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