"Wall, I've heard tell o' courtin' parties," ruminated Turley; "but never one made up like Injuns and armed to th' teeth. Might know some damned fool thing war afoot when yer mixed up in it. Who ye courtin', at yer time o' life? Somebody's wife?" "We're aimin' fer Santer Fe," said Hank. "Got ter have help ter git thar th' way we wants. Them Texans has made it hard fer us, a-stirrin' up everythin' like they has." "Whar'd ye git yer hosses?" anxiously demanded Turley. "Inderpendence, Missoury," innocently answered Hank, his grin lost in the darkness. "Then ye come over th' wagon trail, an' up th' Arkansas?" "Over th' wagon trail an' up th' Cimarron, with th' second caravan o' traders. Come nigh straight acrost from Cold Spring." "Wall, I'll be damned!" muttered Turley. Then he snorted. "Ain't ye got no sense, ye Root Digger? Everybody in th' train'll know them hosses!" "We swapped 'em at Bent's rancho on th' Vermajo--good gosh! Two o' 'em come from them Texans!" "They didn't have no brands," said Tom. "I heard 'em say somethin' about gettin' some at Bent's. We got ter risk it, anyhow. It'll be like addin' a spoonful o' freight ter a wagon load." Hank's mind was running in a groove that he had been gouging deeper and longer hour after hour and he refused to be sidetracked by any question concerning the horses they had changed. "We want ter swap hosses ag'in an' borry some rags fer clothes; an' before daylight, too." Tom arose on one elbow. "That's all right, fur's it goes; only it don't go no-whar," he declared. "We want ter git rid o' these hosses, an' we want th' clothes; but that ain't all. We want a job, Turley. Need any mule wranglers ter take some freight inter Santer Fe?" "Day after tomorrow," answered Turley. "We got ter git rid o' these animals afore then, ye got ter git shet o' 'em afore mornin'. I'll send Jacques out ter take 'em away as soon as I go back ter th' house. Arter he leaves with 'em I'll bring ye some ol' clothes so ye'll look a little different from them four fools that swapped hosses at Bent's rancho. Th' peon up thar won't git away, nor mebby see nobody fer weeks; but we better take th' pelt afore th' meat spiles under it. I got some hosses th' Utes stole from th' 'Rapahoes. We stole 'em from th' Utes. They ain't marked, an' they ain't knowed down in th' valley." "But we'll still be four," commented Tom, thoughtfully. "That's shore a plain trail," said Jim Ogden. "Here: You an' Hank take a mule apiece an' go back th' way we come, fur a spell. Me an' Zeb kin freight whiskey with Turley's _atejo_, an' meet ye along th' trail some'rs, or in Santer Fe, at th' warehouse. Ye kin load yer mules with faggots ter be sold in town, an' tag onter our mule train fer society an' pertection. Yer rifles kin be hid under th' faggots." "We'll be unpackin' th' mules noon an' night," replied Tom. "How 'bout our rifles then?" "Can't be did," grunted Hank.