It's about even, I reckon, that he don't get _me_ first," he added in an ominous voice.
"No!" returned Tucker, grasping his hand again.

"This is not your affair, Patterson; leave him to me when I come back." "If he ever gets the drop on me, I reckon he won't wait," continued Patterson lugubriously.

"He seems to object to my passin' criticism on your wife, as if she was a queen or an angel." The blood came to Spencer's cheek, and he turned uneasily to the window.

"It's dark enough now for a start," he said hurriedly, "and if I could get across the mountain without lying over at the summit, it would be a day gained." Patterson arose without a word, filled a flask of spirit, handed it to his friend, and silently led the way through the slowly falling rain and the now settled darkness.

The mustang was quickly secured and saddled; a heavy _poncho_ afforded Tucker a disguise as well as a protection from the rain.