Beside them lay the corpse of the Italian which his followers, in their haste to overtake his slayer, had not taken the time to remove. It lay upon its back, the dead eyes staring upward.
Never before in his life had the spirits of Danny Patrick sunk so low, for the very reason, perhaps, that never in his life had they risen so high as during the brief interlude of happiness he had enjoyed following his reunion with Jezebel. Now he saw no hope ahead, for, with the two white men eliminated, he feared that he might not even be able to dicker with these ignorant black men for the ransom that he would gladly pay to free Jezebel and himself.
"There goes the garage, the filling station, and the flat," he said, lugubriously.
"Where?" asked Jezebel.
"Flooie," explained Danny.
"But you are here with me," said the golden one; "so I do not care what else there is."
"That's nice, kid; but I ain't much help, all tied up like a Christmas present. They sure picked out a swell bed for me—feels like I was lyin' on a piece of the kitchen stove." He rolled himself to one side and nearer Jezebel. "That's better," he said, "but I wonder what was that thing I was parked on."
"Maybe your friend will come and take us away," suggested Jezebel.
"Who, Smithy? What would he take us with—that dinky toy pistol of his?"
"I was thinking of the other that you told me about."