But,
to get down to cases, you fellows have got to hike back to the camp an'
hole up 'til dark. There's bound to be someone ridin' this here coulee
an' you got to keep out of sight. I'm goin' to do a little scoutin',
an' I'll join you later. It ain't only a couple of miles or so an' you
better hit for the high ground an' cross the divide. Don't risk goin'
through the canyon."
Endicott glanced apprehensively at his mud encased silk socks, the feet
of which were already worn through in a dozen places.
"Where's your slippers!" asked Tex, catching the glance.
"My shoes? I threw them away last night before I took to the water."
"It's just as well. They wasn't any good anyhow. The ground's soft
with the rain, all you got to watch out for is prickly pears an'
rattlesnakes. You'll be close to camp before the rocks get bad an'
then Bat can go hunt up your slippers an' fetch 'em out to you." The
Texan started for his horse. At the top of the ridge he turned: "I'll
stop an' tell her that you'll be along in a little bit," he called, and
swinging into the saddle, struck off up the creek.
The habitual cynical smile that curled his lips broadened as he rode.
"This here Johnson, now, he likes me like he likes a saddle-galded
boil, ever since I maintained that a rider was hired to ride, an' not
to moil, an' quit his post-hole-diggin', hay-pitchin', tea-drinkin'
outfit, short-handed.
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