Mr. Cassidy grinned and ordered his prisoner to one side while be secured the weapon which lay in the hole. Having obtained it as quickly as possible be slid it in his open shirt and clambered out again.
“Yu remind me of a feller I used to know,” remarked Mr. Travennes, as he led the way to the hut, trying not to limp. “Only he throwed dynamite. That was th' way he cleared off chaparral—blowed it off. He got so used to heaving away everything he lit that he spoiled three pipes in two days.”
Mr. Cassidy laughed at the fiction and then became grave as he pictured Mr. Connors sitting on the rock and facing down a line of men, any one of whom was capable of his destruction if given the interval of a second.
When they arrived at the hut Mr. Cassidy observed that the prisoners had moved considerably. There was a cleanly swepttrail four yards long where they had dragged themselves, and they sat in the end nearer the guns. Mr. Cassidy smiled and fired close to the Mexican's ear, who lost in one frightened jump a little of what he had so laboriously gained.
“Yu'll wear out yore pants,” said Mr. Cassidy, and then added grimly, “an' my patience.”
Mr. Travennes smiled and thought of the man who so ably seconded Mr. Cassidy's efforts and who was probably shot by this time. The outfit of the Bar-20 was so well known throughout the land that he was aware the name of the other was Red Connors. An unreasoning streak of sarcasm swept over him and he could not resist the opportunity to get in a stab at his captor.
“Mebby yore pard has wore out somebody's patience, too,” said Mr. Travennes, suggestively and with venom.
His captor wheeled toward him, his face white with passion, and Mr. Travennes shrank back and regretted the words.
“I ain't shootin' dogs this here trip,” said Mr. Cassidy, trembling with scorn and anger, “so yu can pull yourself together. I'll give yu another chance, but yu wants to hope almighty hard that Red is O. K. If he ain't, I'll blow yu so many ways at once that if yu sprouts yu'll make a good acre of weeds. If he is all right yu'd better vamoose this range, for there won't be no hole for yu to crawl into next time. What friends yu have left will have to tote yu off an' plant yu,” he finished with emphasis. He drove the horses outside, and, after severing the bonds on his prisoners, lined them up.
“Yu,” he began, indicating all but Mr. Travennes, “yu amble right smart toward Canada,” pointing to the north. “Keep a-going till yu gets far enough away so a Colt won't find yu.” Here he grinned with delight as he saw his Sharp's rifle in its sheath on his saddle and, drawing it forth, he put away his Colts and glanced at the trio, who were already industriously plodding northward. “Hey!” he shouted, and when they sullenly turned to see what new idea he had found he gleefully waved his rifle at them and warned them further: “This is a Sharp's an' it's good for half a mile, so don't stop none too soon.”