ROBBERS RIDE THE STORM
Tyler drifted over to him but did not turn in his direction.
“Well, kid,” he said softly, “your time has come.”
“Told you before—”
“Sure, you did,” Tyler said. “And now I’m telling you, there’s a hoss waiting over there, behind that clump of mesquite.”
“Let it wait. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“There’s food and water, clothes in the saddlebag. Money, too. Your pards have gone to a deal of trouble, Hardesty. Don’t waste this chance.”
Hardesty flicked a covert glance toward the mesquite and licked his lips.
“Some chance,” he grunted. “I’m on a chain, and there’s three bastards with rifles—”
“I ain’t likely to hit you, am I? And I made sure the other two rifles are loaded with blanks.”
“I’m still on a goddamn chain,” growled Hardesty.
“You stand up,” instructed Tyler. “Then you pretend you’re sick. I’ll unlock the chain. You take off. That’s all there is to it.”
“What’s in it for you?”