tracked through the mesquite, unheard and unseen while the other had been intent upon surprising Sheridan.
"Two aces in the draw, Hollister," drawled Jackson. "An' don't fergit I'm double-handed. What they call amberdexterous. There's yore hawses, what 's yore hurry?" he jeered as Hollister swore, first at him and then at the Mexican, whose walnut colored face was dirty grey with fright.
"You can take your rope with you, if you like," suggested Sheridan, "and ride down draw, please. All right. Red, give him his gun. "
Jackson slid his own gun back to the holster, broke the weapon of the Mexican and tossed into the brush the cartridges flung from the cylinder into his palm. Then he threw the weapon at its owner's feet.
"Git, you Greaser. Vamos." The man followed Hollister through the brush to the horses. They mounted, wheeled and galloped off down the draw, Hollister turning in his saddle to shake his fist and sputter out an oath.
"If you'll git back to the hawses," said Jackson, "I'll put our brand on the ca'f an' let it go. And I'll find my Stetson. A bush hooked it while I was trailin' that Greaser. He had his dirty finger crooked to pull when I called him. "
"Thanks, Red." The two were close enough, in the western intimacy between employer and employee, to make further expression of gratitude superfluous, though Jackson had been less than six months with the Circle S. Sheridan rejoined the
