“Same way your braves got all that goldfrom Collado Bernadino,” grinned Collier. “Two whole wagonloads—ontheir way to Camp Stone. Those guns were meant for your enemies,Chief. I have them now—hidden safe. If you agree to the trade, I’llmake medicine on it, figure some way of shipping the guns to you.How about that?”
The swarthy face creased in a sly grin.
“Maybe Gayatero can find gold.”
“All the gold,” stressed Collier, “for allthe rifles.”
The chief nodded in eageragreement. “Good. You can’t send your braves out to meet me—totingall that gold—so it’ll be my job to plan a way of bringing the guns uphere.”
“How long?” prodded Gayatero.
“The morning after tomorrow,” frownedCollier. “By then, my plan will be made.”
“You come tell me?” Gayatero suggested.
“No,” said Collier. “Better you send a scoutdown to meet me. I’ll tell him the plan—and then you’ll know whenthe guns will be delivered. You savvy. Chief?”
“Savvy good,” grunted Gayatero. “Where youmeet scout?”
“The Long Knives,” growled Mochita, “keepmany eyes on the mesa.”
“As if I didn’t know,” scowled Collier. Hegave the matter some thought before coming up with an answer.“Well, I think the best place would be the arroyo over by the SantaRosas. You know the arroyo—south of the tall pine?”
“I know this place,” Mochita assured hisfather.
“My son,” Gayatero decided, “will meetyou.”
“In the morning,” said Collier, “day aftertomorrow.”
At about this same time, in anarea far removed from Sun Dog Mesa, Larry and Stretch were viewinga small tableau that seemed to demand a touch of Texas chivalry.Rounding a bend of a well-marked trail, they came upon a stalledwagon surrounded by a patrol of seven troopers and one N.C.O. Atfirst, they paid no attention to the soldiers, because, being maleand healthy, all their interest was focused on the wagon-driver.
She was standing on the seat, heapingabuse on the soldiery and menacing them with a sawed-off shotgun, aslim, good-looking girl who looked to be no more than twenty. Shewore a crisp white blouse tucked into tightly-belted blue jeans.Her blue eyes flashed in anger. Long, corn-colored hair streamedfrom under the flat-crowned Stetson clamped to the back of herhead. Her partner on the seat was an undersized, freckled boy whomLarry guessed to be fourteen or fifteen. The boy was shabbilygarbed and appeared worried, but every bit as indignant as thegirl. As the Texans drew closer, they heard her sharprebuke.
“You’ll keep your gosh-dam paws off thismerchandise—unless you crave a load of buckshot. This is aLowell-Taft rig. Everybody knows the Lowell-Taft Freight Line isfair, square and honest. Anybody says otherwise, I’ll...!”
“Consarn you, gal!” bellowed the N.C.O.“Will you quit hollerin’ at us and listen to reason? Nobody’saccusin’ you of anything. It’s just we got our orders. Every rigthat travels Bosworth County has to be checked.”
“Martha ...” The boy eyed her expectantly,“you gonna shoot him?”
“I’ve a mind to!” she gasped.
"Mind where you point that cannon!” beggedthe N.C.O.
And his voice was poignantly familiar to theLone Star Hellions, a voice from the hectic and not so distantpast. Not a voice to be relished, of course. Hell, no. As often asthey had tangled with the irascible Colonel Stone, they had tangledwith his top sergeant, the beefy, florid and formidable HalBoyle.
“Lady,” Larry called to the girl, “itsounds like the army’s callin’ this play. Maybe you’d bestcooperate.”
As the well-remembered Texas drawl smote hisears, Boyle started convulsively and almost fell from hissaddle.
He ricked his neck in his haste to twist andstare at the slowly approaching riders. His eyes widened. An oatherupted from him.
“Valentine—Emerson!”
“Howdy, Boyle,” greeted Larry. “You’relookin’ fatter than ever.”
“And twice as stupid,” grinned Stretch.
“Hey!” breathed the boy. “Did you hearhim, Martha? He called ’em ...” He rose on the seat, stared eagerlyat the Texans. “Hey, gents! Are you Larry and Stretch?”
“I guess they are at that,” frowned thegirl. “They sure fit every description I ever heard.”
Politely, the drifters doffed theirStetsons. She acknowledged that courtesy by lowering, with somereluctance, the shotgun. Boyle simmered for a long moment, thenfound his voice again.
“Butt out of this!” he panted. “You crazy,interferin’, trouble-huntin’ fools ...!”
The troopers, some of whom had good cause toremember the Texans, nudged their mounts closer to the laden wagonand looked to their weapons. Larry chuckled softly, and advisedBoyle,
“Hang onto your temper. There won’t be anyhassle—unless you start it.”
“Howdy, Mr. Valentine,” grinned the boy.“Howdy, Mr. Emerson. I’m Joey Taft, and this here’s MarthaLowell.”
“Howdy, Joey,” nodded Larry, “and MissMartha. You can call me Larry.”
“And call me Stretch,” offered the tallerTexan.
“Larry—Stretch ...” The girl gesturedbriskly. “If you figure to lend us a hand, climb up beside us andput your guns on these proddy soldier-boys.”
“Miss Martha,” drawled Larry, “I guess youknow why the army is checkin’ all wagons.”
“I know why,” she nodded. “But this is aLowell-Taft wagon, one of the rigs that was raided by thosehijacking sidewinders. My pa and Joey’s were killed in that raid.Would we be hauling any of those stolen rifles?”
“Ma’am ...” began Boyle,
“Don’t call me ‘ma’am’!” she snapped. “I’mMiss, and I’m apt to stay unwed for the rest of my life—becauseevery man I run into is darn near as ugly—and as dumb—asyou!”
“Miss Martha.” said Larry, “not even ahombre as dumb as Boyle would accuse you of haulin’ stolen guns.But these blue britches got their orders. Tell you what. You let’em check your load, and Stretch and me’ll guarantee they don’tbreak any merchandise.”
“The army don’t need no help from youconsarned Texans!” shouted Boyle.
“What d’you say, Miss Martha?” proddedLarry.
“I guess you’re right,” she sighed, “andmaybe I’m too hot-tempered. It’s just I get so all-firedmad—thinking of what happened to Pa and Uncle Mace Taft—and theirkillers still riding free.” She set her shotgun aside, scowled downat the sergeant. “All right—you with the red face—so you get tocheck the cargo. But tell your clumsy friends to handle itgentle.”
“Men,” breathed Boyle, “you know what tolook for. Don’t damage nothin’—if you can help it.”
He shoved his hat to the back of hisbalding dome and, during the short time it took his sevencolleagues to check the wagon’s load, kept his angry gaze fastenedon Larry and Stretch, a couple of free-swinging hellions who, onmore than one occasion, had traded punches with him. With him—andwith numerous other
