“I’d like to talk with this old boozer,” Jimmie argued.
“Well, one must stay with the machine!” Ben insisted. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll talk with this Crooked Terry and you come down when I signal.”
“You’re on!” declared the boy. “I’ll fly over the summit and watch you rolling down the gully.”
When Ben reached the place where the fire had blazed on the previous night, he was surprised to see a bed of coals remaining. Drawing nearer, and flashing his light he saw a well-dressed young man lying unconscious on the shelf, his silk hat scorching on the embers, and a small traveling-bag blistering under the heat. Over the figure, knife in hand, stood Terry.
CHAPTER XII.
THE ENGLISHMAN’S BAG.
Terry lifted the hand holding the knife as Ben approached. Doubting if the drunken man would heed his words, and realizing that it would be impossible to reach his side in time to prevent the meditated crime, the boy fired at the uplifted arm. Instead of finding a lodging in flesh and muscle the bullet struck the blade of the knife and broke it off short at the handle.
His hand and arm temporarily paralyzed by the force of the impact, Terry caught hold of his wrist with his left hand and looked about with a snarl on his bloated face.
When Ben stepped within the circle of light about the fire he drew back still, clutching his benumbed wrist.
“What’d you do that for?” he demanded.
“I didn’t want you to kill the man,” replied Ben. “Who is he, and where did he come from?”