They reached the top of the little slope and turned down the other side.
“I don’t altogether like this hanging idea,” said Gibson. “I got you into this, Jeff; so I’ll just get you out again—like the man in our town who was so wondrous wise. Going to use bramble bushes, too.” Volatile Gibson, in the stress of danger, had forgotten his wrath. He was light-hearted and happy, frivolously gay. “Give me your rope and your gun, Jeff. Quick now! No, I won’t mention your girl—not once! Hurry!”
“What you going to do?” asked Jeff, thoroughly mystified.
“Ever read the ‘Fool’s Errand’?” Charley chuckled. “No? Well, I have. Jump off and tie the end of your rope to that mesquite root. Quick!”
He sprang down, snatched one end of the coil from Jeff’s hand and stretched it taut across the road, a foot from the ground. “Now your gun! Quick!”
He snatched the gun, tied an end of his own saddle-rope to the stretched one, near the middle, plunged through the mesquite, over a hummock, paying out his rope as he went; wedged the gun firmly in the springing crotch of a mesquite tree, cocked it and tied the loose end of the trailing rope to the trigger. He ran back and sprang on his horse.
“Now ride! It’s our last chance!”
“Kid, you’re a wonder!” said Jeff. “You’ll do to take along! They’ll lope up when they turn down that slope, hit that rope and pile in a heap!”
“And my rope will fire the gun off!” shrilled joyous Charley. “They’ll think it’s us—an ambuscade——”