Hemmingway tentatively suggested that a ride through the gorge toward the Kelso Basin might simplify matters for himself and Taylor; it might, he said, even seem to make the defending of their position unnecessary. But his suggestions met with no enthusiasm from Taylor, who lounged among the rocks of his place of concealment calmly smoking.
Taylor gave some reasons for his disinclination to adopt Hemmingway’s suggestions.
“Norton will be back in an hour, with Bothwell and the outfit.” And now he grinned as he looked at Bud. “Miss Harlan told me to be careful about my scratches. I take it she don’t want no more sieges with a sick man. And I’m taking her advice. If I’d go to riding my horse like blazes, maybe I would get sick again. And she wouldn’t take care of me anymore. And I’d hate like blazes to run from Keats and his bunch of plug-uglies!”
So Hemmingway said no more on that subject.
They smoked and talked and watched the trail for signs of Keats and his men; while the sun, which had been behind the towering hills surrounding the gorge, traveled slowly above them, finally blazing down from a point directly overhead.
It became hot in the gorge; the air was stifling and the heat uncomfortable. Taylor did not seem to mind it, but Bud, with a vigorous appetite, and longings that ran to flapjacks and sirup, grew impatient.
“If a man could eat now,” he remarked once, while the sun was directly overhead, “why, it wouldn’t be so bad!”
And then, after the sun’s blazing rays had begun to diminish in intensity somewhat, Bud looked upward and saw that the shimmering orb had passed beyond the crest of a towering hill. He looked sharply at Taylor, who was intently watching the back trail, and said gravely:
“Norton ought to have been back with Bothwell and the bunch, now.”
“He’s an hour overdue,” said Taylor, without looking at Bud.