“Let him lie there and grunt,” growled Pete. “Didn’t he chuck me into that fire? My back’s all blistered.”
He pulled on a coat, for his clothes had been quite torn away above his waist at the back when he was putting out the fire.
Frances suffered keenly herself, for the man had tied her wrists and ankles so tightly that the cords cut into the flesh whenever she tried to move them. Beside, she lay in a most uncomfortable position.
But to hear Pratt groan was terrible. The blow on the head had seriously hurt him–of that there could be no doubt. When she called to him he did not answer, and finally Pete commanded her to keep silence.
“Ye want to make a fuss so as to draw somebody down here–I kin see what you are up to.”
Frances had a wholesome fear of him by this time. She had seen Pete at his worst–and had felt his heavy hand, too. She was bruised and suffering pain herself. But Pratt’s case was much worse than her own just then and her whole heart went out to the young man from Amarillo.
Pete sat over his little fire and smoked. He was evidently expecting Ratty M’Gill to return; but for some reason Ratty was delayed.
Doubtless the two plotters had proposed to themselves that Captain Rugley would be too ill to take the lead in any chase after the kidnappers. Perhaps Pete even hoped that the old ranchman would agree immediately to the terms of ransom set forth in the note Ratty had taken to the Bar-T.
The ex-cowpuncher was to linger around and see what would be done about the message to the Captain; then come here and report to Pete. And as the hours dragged by, and it drew near midnight, with no appearance of the messenger, the chief plotter grew more anxious.
He huddled over the fire, almost enclosing it with his arms and legs for warmth. Frances, lying beyond, and out of the puny radiance of its warmth, felt the chill of the night air keenly. Pete did not even offer her a blanket.