Loudon stopped and stared at the distant figures. They made no hostile motions, but appeared to hold converse with each other. One detached himself from the group and came toward Loudon. He saw that it was his friend, Mike Flynn, the one-legged proprietor of the Blue Pigeon Store. The red-headed Irishman, his mouth a-grin from ear to ear, halted in front of Loudon and stretched out his hamlike paw. "H'are yuh, Tom, me lad," he said, giving Loudon's hand a terrific grip. "I'm glad to see yuh, an' that's the truth. Others are not so glad, I'm thinkin'." He peered through the doorway. "I thought so. 'T's all right, Tommy, me an' me friends is with yuh heart an' soul. Though Farewell don't look it they's a few solid min like meself in the place who are all for law an' order an' a peaceful life. But they ain't enough of us, djuh see, to get all we want to once. "Still, we can do somethin', so, Tommy, me lad, go as far as yuh like with Block an' his constituents yuh got inside. Put 'em over the jumps. Me an' me frinds will see that they's no attimpts made at a riscue. We will that. Be aisy. If yuh have a chance come to the Blue Pigeon. Not a word. Not a word. I know yo're busy." Mike Flynn returned whence he came. Loudon was considerably relieved by what the Irishman had said. For only ten of the men who had been in the Happy Heart were in Block's shack, and the absence of the others had given him much food for thought. He hastened to inspect the horses in the corral. Within three minutes he had resumed his seat on Block's table. "'Course I ain't doubtin' yore word, Block," he observed, "but one o' them hosses is yore black, an' the other hoss is a gray pony branded 88 an' packin' a saddle with Shorty Simms's name stamped on the front o' the cantle. Both hosses look like they'd been rode fast an' far. Well, Shorty's dead, anyway. You yellow pup, yuh didn't have nerve enough to shoot it out with the sheriff yore own self! Yuh had to go get one o' Blakely's killers to do yore dirty work for yuh." "Wat you say, Tom?" queried Laguerre. "Keel heem un tak hees hair, huh?" "It'd shore improve him a lot. I got a plan, Telescope. Just wait a shake. Block, where's Rufe Cutting an' what happened to my hoss Ranger?" "I dunno nothin' about Cutting," mumbled Block. Instantly Loudon's six-shooter cracked. With a yelp of pain Block leaped a yard high and clapped a hand to his head. "Up with them hands!" rapped out Loudon. "Up with 'em!" Block, shaking like a cedar branch in a breeze, obeyed. From a ragged gash in the Darwinian tubercle of his right ear blood trickled down his neck.