"Wa'al," chuckled Bushnell, "thet's w'at I call dead fool luck, beggin' yer pardon fer speakin' so open like, at which I means no harm whatever."
"Oh, ye needn't beg my pardon," quickly said Professor Scotch. "I don't want any credit for getting away. It wasn't a case of brains at all."
Breakfast was prepared, and they ate heartily, after which Frank, Hans, and the professor lay down to sleep, while Bushnell smoked a black pipe.
But even Bushnell was not made of iron, and the pipe soothed him to slumber, so the entire party slept, with no one to guard.
All at once, some hours later, they were awakened by an exclamation from Frank, who sat up and stared at the form of a stranger, the latter being quietly squatting in their midst, calmly puffing at a cigarette, while his poncho was wrapped about him to his hips.
Frank's exclamation awakened Bushnell like an electric shock, and, even as his eyes opened, his hand shot out, the fingers grasping the butt of a revolver that was pointed straight at the stranger.
"Stiddy, thar!" called the Westerner. "I hev ther drop on yer, an' I'll sock yer full of lead ef yer wiggle a toenail! You hear me chirp!"
The stranger continued smoking, his coal-black eyes being the only part of him to move, for all of the threatening revolver.
Hans sat up, gasping:
"Shimminy Gristmas! Der pandits haf caught us alretty soon!"