A horseman topped a rise, spurring hard towards them, shouting as he came, swaying a little in the saddle, as if drunk or injured. Sheridan and Red both instantly knew him, by man and voice and horse, for one of their outfit. They closed in on either side as he reined up, the bronco snorting, the man breathing hard.
"What is it, Lund?" asked Sheridan.
"Quongy they got Quong!" An' laid me out." Lund was hatless and his hand went up uncertainly to the back of his head, bringing it away smeared with blood that he looked at curiously.
"Clipped me with the butt of a gun, they did! Damn 'em, they didn't even give me a show!" he cried, half sobbing with indignation and weakness.
"Who? Who did it, Jim? Brace up."
"They was masked, but I know it's Hollister an' his lousy hombres. Our bunch was down to the Diamond W outfit, playin' poker. Me, I'm broke, so I stays home to write a letter. Quong, he's in his kitchen. They got him, an' when I happens along, 'count of the noise, they jumps me an' smashes me back of the head, 'fore I sabied what was doin'."
"Can you stick to leather, Jim?"
"You bet I can. They thought they'd tapped me for keeps. I starts after my hawss to saddle up an' go after the boys. Then I hears Red singin' an' I knowed you was comin' home. They're goin' to tar an' feather Quong an' whip him out inter the desert. Took one of his cookin' pots for the tar. Took one of yore ticks for the feathers, the worthless sons of. . . . "
