But even the probability of encountering a storm—which in that altitude was something decidedly to be reckoned with—did not deter the men from proceeding to make ready for the road agent’s capture. In an incredibly short space of time they had loaded up and got their horses together, and from the harmony in their ranks while carrying out orders, it was evident that not a man there doubted the success of their undertaking.
“We’ll git this road agent!” sung out Trinidad, going out through the door.
“Right you are, pard!” agreed Sonora; but at the door he called back to the greaser: “Come on, you oily, garlic-eatin’, red-peppery, dog-trottin’, sun-baked son of a skunk!”
“Come on, you...!” came simultaneously from the Deputy, now untying the rope which bound the prisoner.
The greaser’s teeth were chattering; he begged:
“One dreenk—I freeze....”
Turning to Nick the Deputy told him to give the man a drink, adding as he left the room:
“Watch him—keep your eye on him a moment for me, will you?”
Nick nodded; and then regarding the Mexican with a contemptuous look, he asked:
“What’ll you have?”