Waco blew a smoke-ring and nodded toward it as it dissolved.  Lorry pondered.  The keen edge of his interest in the capture had worn off, leaving a blunt purpose—­a duty that was part of the day’s work.  As he realized how much the other was at his mercy a tinge of sympathy softened his gray eyes.  Justice was undeniably a fine thing.  Folks were entitled to the pursuit of happiness, to life and liberty he had read somewhere.  He glanced up.  Waco, seated opposite, had drifted back into a stupor, head sunk forward and arms relaxed.  The stub of his cigarette lay smouldering between his feet.  Lorry thought of the girl’s appeal.

“Just what started you to workin’ this holdup game?” he queried.

Waco’s head came up.  “You joshin’ me?”

“Nope.”

“You wouldn’t believe a hard-luck story, so what’s the use?”

“Ain’t any.  I was just askin’ a question.  Roll another?”

Waco stuck out his grimy paw.  His fingers trembled as he fumbled the tobacco and papers.

Lorry proffered a match.  “It makes me sick to see a husky like you all shot to pieces,” said Lorry.

“Did you just get wise to that?”

“Nope.  But I just took time to say it.”

Waco breathed deep, inhaling the smoke.  “I been crooked all my life,” he asserted.

“I can believe that.  ‘Course you know I’m takin’ you to Stacey.”

“The left-hand trail was quicker,” ventured the tramp.

“And no water.”

“I could ride,” suggested Waco.

Lorry shook his head.  “If you was to make a break I’d just nacherally plug you.  I got your gun.  You’re safer afoot.”

“I’ll promise—­”

“Nope.  You’re too willin’.”

“I’m all in,” said Waco.

“I got to take you to Stacey just the same.”

“And you’re doin’ it for the money—­the reward.”

“That’s my business.”

“Go ahead,” said the tramp.  “I hope you have a good time blowin’ in the dough.  Blood-money changes easy to booze-money when a lot of cow-chasers get their hooks on it.”

“Don’t get gay!” said Lorry.  “I aim to use you white as long as you work gentle.  If you don’t—­”

“That’s the way with you guys that do nothin’ but chase a cow’s tail over the country.  You handle folks the same as stock—­rough stuff and to hell with their feelin’s.”

“You’re feelin’ better,” said Lorry.  “Stand up and get to goin’.”

As Waco rose, Lorry’s pony nickered.  A rider was coming down the distant northern hillside.  In the fluttering silken bandanna and the twinkle of silver-studded trappings Lorry recognized the foreman of the Starr Rancho; Bob Brewster, known for his arrogance as “High-Chin Bob.”

“Guess we’ll wait a minute,” said Lorry.

Waco saw the rider, and asked who he was.

“It’s High Chin, the foreman.  You been ridin’ one of his string of horses—­the black there.”