The rider,
still holding his six-gun, muzzle up, glanced back. "I didn't care
partic'lar about gettin' _him_, but gettin' the kid hits the red-head
between the eyes. I guess I'm about even now." And Silent Saunders
holstered his gun, swung out of the canon, and spurred down the
mountain, not toward the desert town, but toward Gophertown, some thirty
miles to the north. He had found the claim. The desert town folk he had
used to good advantage. They had paid his expenses while he trailed
Overland and Collie. They had even guaranteed him protection from the
law--such as it was on the Mojave. He had every reason to be grateful to
them, but he was just a step or two above them in criminal artistry. He
had been a "killer." Like the lone wolf that calls the pack to the hunt,
he turned instinctively to Gophertown, a settlement in the hills not
unknown to a few of the authorities, but unmolested by them. The
atmosphere of Gophertown was not conducive to long life.
CHAPTER XXVI
SPECIAL
Overland, leaning on his shovel, drew his sleeve across his forehead.
"Reckon I'll go down and wake Collie. He'll sleep his head off and feel
worse 'n thunder."
"I'll go," said Winthrop, throwing aside a pan of dirt with a fine
disregard of its eventual value.
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