"Yes. We won't take the horses any farther. If that watchman is on the dam to-night he might hear something. We can pack the powder the rest of the way ourselves."
The rear riders, young Sandy McCrae and Wyndham, arrived. Then a dispute arose. No one wished to remain with the horses. Casey Dunne settled it.
"There's only one man going to plant powder and cut fuses, and that's Oscar," said he. "If we all go messing around with it in the dark, half the shots won't fire, and we may have an accident. Outside of that there's nothing to do except take care of the watchman if he's there; and he's sure to be. Wyndham, you're not cut out for that sort of work. You will stay with the ponies. Now, McCrae, you'd better turn around and drive home."
McCrae pulled the team around. "Good luck, boys," said he quietly, and was gone. The spare horse which had been tied to the buckboard remained for Oscar.
The Swede proceeded to load himself with dynamite, placing it around his legs in the high socks he wore, in the breast of his shirt, and in his pockets. This was the overflow from a gunny sack in which he carried the rest. He resembled a perambulating mine.
"Ay ban ready now," he announced.
"I say, Oscar, don't trip," said Wyndham facetiously.
"Nor interfere," McHale added. "Plant them number twelves of yours plumb wide apart, Oscar, and don't try to scratch your ankle with your boot."
Oscar grinned at them, his big, white teeth shining in the darkness. He attempted the repartee of his adopted country.
"You faller tenk you mek big yoke—vat!" said he. "You go to hal, please."