"He's mighty quick, like all them army men. 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. With a few hurried, disconnected words, and
an abstracted air, he once more shook his friend's hand and issued
cautiously from the corral.
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