"Here, Tony," said he with a slight laugh, "here's a peso.
You'll find your knife back there where I had to drop her."
He entered a saloon, nodded to the proprietor, and led the way
through it to a boxlike room containing a board table and two
chairs.
"Make good,"he commanded briefly.
"I'm looking for a man with nerve," explained Parker, with equal
succinctness. "You're the man."
"Well?"
"Do you know the country south of here?"
The stranger's eyes narrowed.
"Proceed," said he.
"I'm foreman of the Lazy Y of Soda Springs Valley range,"
explained Parker. "I'm looking for a man with sand enough and
sabe of the country enough to lead a posse after cattle-rustlers
into the border country."
"I live in this country," admitted the stranger.
"So do plenty of others, but their eyes stick out like two raw
oysters when you mention the border country. Will you tackle
it?"
"What's the proposition?"
"Come and see the old man. He'll put it to you."
They mounted their horses and rode the rest of the day. The
desert compassed them about, marvellously changing shape and
colour, and every character, with all the noiselessness of
phantasmagoria.
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