"'Red's pants,'" said a humorous voice.
"Come on, Luke. We'll hold up somewhere an' get th' relief shift when it comes out from th' ranch."
"Shore. Where's th' ranch?"
"'Bout three miles west; an' it's a cussed fine one, too."
"All right; get movin'. I want to dry out these pants. They must be all cotton from th' way they feel. We'll go back a ways an' start a fire."
"No, we won't; too dangerous," growled Johnny decidedly. "We got this game won right now if we don't let 'em know there's two of us."
Luke grinned in the dark. "Suits me. You wait here a minute," he said, disappearing. When he returned he grunted with keen satisfaction, for Fleming's trousers felt snug and warm. "How many are left?" he asked, leading the way toward his hidden pack.
"Quigley, Purdy, Gates, an' th' cook."
"Them names don't surprise me," grunted Luke.
"How'd you get so wet?"