Denzil laughed awkwardly.
“On the contrary,” he said. “I hate riding alone. But I thought you chaps were dead asleep. This to my thinking is the best time of the day.”
“Yes,” Lawless agreed. “I usually ride before the sun is up.”
They drew abreast, and walked their horses alongside the dense bush. Denzil talked continuously as a man might who was ill at ease and anxious to gain time. It was evident to Lawless that he scented danger, and would gladly have been without his companionship. Once or twice he looked about him furtively, as though some idea of flight possessed his mind; but either his nerve was not equal to the attempt or the possibility of being mistaken in his deductions suggested the prudence of awaiting developments.
The development, when it came, was startling and unpleasant.
He had been looking about him in his furtive, shifty, nervous way, as though wishful yet fearful of attempting escape, when suddenly facing about, impelled by some force other than conscious volition, he found himself staring blankly into the shining barrel of a revolver.
“If you so much as lift a finger,” Lawless said coolly, “I’ll blow your brains out. Halt!”
The horses came to a standstill. Lawless, still covering the other man, freed his foot from the stirrup and swung himself out of the saddle.
“Dismount!” he said, standing with the rein over his left arm, the right raised with the revolver gripped in his hand.
Denzil reddened, but complied with the curt command.