The Man from Bar-20
"Quick!" panted Quiglcy. "H—l's broke loose with all th' gates open! What you find?"
"Nelson's bronc. Th' two men that led it cached it in a draw an' went back again towards th' Buttes. What's up?"
"Everything, I reckon. Fleming's dead—knifed," panted Quigley, leading the way westward. "Frank—I don't know—about him. Never—had a chance—Art didn't. Good thing—I reckon we come—th' way we did. There—ain't no tellin'—what we might 'a' run—up ag'in. D—n 'em! I'll never leave—th' hills! Dead or—alive, I stays!"
"I've located—here permanent myself," growled Purdy. "Fleming knifed, huh? Mebby—mebby they're Injuns! Knife-play an' moccasins! I—betcha!"
"D—n fool!" gritted Quigley savagely; and then, remembering his companion's declaration of permanent location, he relented. "He wasn't—scalped!"
"Apaches—don't scalp!" grunted Purdy doggedly.
"But they make—tracks, don't they?" blazed Quigley. "I tell you—I know Injun tracks—like I know my name. They're—white men!"
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