UP in their chaparral cloister the runaways sat disconsolate over the camp fire. Another noon had come and gone, and this time no signal whatever had fluttered in the tall cottonwood down at Squawtooth. Manzanita fried the last of the bacon and poured cold water into the coffee to settle it.
“It’s bacon straight,” she announced with an attempt at a laugh. “Next meal it’ll be coffee straight. We dare not even go out to pot a rabbit now, with them hunting as close as they are. If we were to shoot they’d locate us in no time at all. With them mounted and us afoot, we’d never get away.”
Falcon the Flunky nibbled at a strip of bacon that had refused to crisp, then dropped it. It was the last remnant of the side, and it was rancid and fat.
Presently Manzanita did the same with her portion.
“It’s simply unfit to eat,” she said mournfully. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat bacon again after this. Ugh! I hate it! Honestly, I’d rather go hungry.”
The Falcon set down his coffee cup. “Dearest,” he said, “we’ve got to get out of here. I’m innocent; I refuse longer to subject you to such needless discomfort. It’s getting serious.”
“We can’t get out,” she protested. “We could never make it across the range; it’s fifty miles, I guess.”
“We’ll go to Squawtooth, and I’ll give myself up.”
“You won’t! I won’t let you. Besides, I refuse to give up. The Canbys always finish whatever they start. I’ll get a signal of complete surrender, or we’ll stay right here and starve.”
“Oh, no, we’ll not!” he assured her.