He picked up one of the cartridges upon which he had been working and McIvor examined it critically. A hole had been bored into the heart of the lead bullet and a smaller cartridge neatly imbedded.
"One of them explosive bullets," boasted Meshackatee shamelessly; "I claim to have invented 'em, myself. A twenty-two blank, set exactly in the middle of it, and the minute she hits something—zingo! she blows up like a bomb. Maybe you saw how they worked when we were chowsing them sheep? Well, the Scarboroughs are shooting them at men."
"I know that," nodded McIvor, "but you spoke of some plan."
"Oh, sure," replied Meshackatee, "well, what I had in mind was to go back and try these on them."
"And then?"
"Well, take to the brush; out-Injun 'em if we can—I'll admit it's kinder resky."
"I see," murmured Hall, and fell silent again while Meshackatee watched him narrowly.
"Of course," went on Meshackatee, "there's a hell-scad of them Texans——"
"That don't worry me a bit," put in McIvor abruptly. "I've been doing this kind of fighting all my life. But I promised Miss Randolph I'd keep out of this trouble and I aim to make my word good. At the same time, if the Scarboroughs have sent for her brothers——"
"They sure have!" affirmed Meshackatee, "and I'll tell you how I know it. One of them neutrals came out to buy 'em some cartridges and he showed me the letter himself. It was addressed to Cal Randolph, somewhere back in Kentucky——"