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either been a real lucky, or mighty well-aimed shot. Noticing the other’s quietly competent appearance, the scout went for the latter choice.
    ‘Was you wanting me dead,’ the scout remarked, raking Dusty from head to foot with his eyes, ‘you’d’ve let the hawg get me.’
    ‘Don’t you going setting too much store by that, hombre,’ the small Texan warned. ‘If I’d let it happen, the noise’d likely’ve spooked off your horses and I need them.’
    ‘And I thought it was me you liked,’ said the scout, right hand moving slowly towards his leg.
    ‘While you’re down there, take out the knife and toss it this way,’ Dusty ordered. ‘With the tips of your fingers, so there’ll be no temptation to let you get “damned” permanent.’
    Grinning resignedly, the scout obeyed. Drawing the knife between the extreme tips of his thumb and forefinger, he spun it across the clearing and made certain that it never looked like reaching his rescuer. That Texan captain might be young, but he packed a whole heap too much savvy to play games against. Going by the manner in which he handled the Colt, he rated high in skill at using it. No man could take chances with that level of talent to his own advantage. Trying to jump him, without the help of a suitable distraction, would be rapidly fatal. So the scout intended to comply with the other’s orders—unless a real good chance of altering their status happened to come up.
    ‘Ole “Californy” Bill allus telled me washing and shaving regular’s plumb dangerous,’ commented the scout. ‘Damned if he didn’t have him a mishap and tell the truth for once.’
    ‘It happens to most of us, one time or another,’ Dusty replied. ‘You can get up’s long’s you do it slow and easy.’
    ‘Thanks,’ answered the scout and came to his feet in a lithe, effortless manner that told Dusty he was neither slow nor clumsy in his movements. ‘Why’d the hawg jump me?’
    ‘Going by that nick on its butt-end, I’d say it was riled ‘cause a Yankee luff threw a bullet at it yesterday.’
    ‘Why’d he do a fool thing like that?’
    ‘Heard it moving in some bushes, figured it was me and come up smoking. I’d say he was lucky that ole hawg went away instead of coming at him.’
    ‘You see it happen?’ asked the scout.
    ‘Heard a couple of Volunteers talking about it while they was supposed to be hunting for me.’
    ‘Buller’s bunch, huh? That figures. There’s not one of them from the Bully his-self down to the lowest drummerboy’s’s got sense enough to pound sand into a rat-hole. What you got in mind to do with me?’
    ‘Now I’d say that depends on you,’ Dusty answered. I won’t chance leaving you hawg-tied here, or having you free to come after me.’
    ‘Maybe you should’ve let the hawg get me,’ commented the scout.
    ‘There’s some’s’d say you’re right,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Trouble being I didn’t and it’s too late now. After I’ve got your guns, you can come over and get dressed.’
    ‘Can I finish my shave first?’
    ‘Go to it. Only don’t try shaving me while you’re at it.’
    Keeping a watch while the scout went ahead with his interrupted ablutions, Dusty lowered his Colt and crossed to the fire. Asking for and receiving permission he poured out a cup of coffee. At no time did he relax his vigilance, as the scout observed through the mirror. Dusty presented his captive with no opportunity to jump him, or to make a dash for cover. Finishing the coffee, he collected the Navy Colts and thrust them into his waist-band. Then he returned his revolver to its holster and, selecting a moment when the scout had the razor to his tight-stretched throat, slid the Henry rifle from its boot. Working the lever, Dusty emptied the repeater’s chamber. While replacing the Henry in the medicine boot, Dusty produced his Colt again.
    ‘Now what?’ inquired the scout, having finished his shave and rinsed his face at the river’s edge.
    ‘Come