Lafe pointed to the Jug and opined that they would have to leave him there. The Jug was too formidable for assault, unless they had urgent need of him.
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Moffatt. "He ain't there now. I'll bet he's sneaked out the back way and is drifting right now. His gun went wrong, or it's like he'd have got me. No, sir, ol' Jiminez has beat it while the going was good, you can bet."
"Jiminez?" the sheriff repeated. "Pablo Jiminez?"
"His brother," answered Moffatt, and became sullen.
Johnson said nothing more just then. All was now explained. The Mexican had cut across country over unfrequented trails to intercept Moffatt at the Jug, as soon as he had learned of the killing of his brother. They had been companions on more than one ranch raid for horses, and he had guessed where Moffatt would seek refuge.
"Whose horse was shot first?" Lafe demanded, after an interval of silence, during which he gathered wood for a fire.
"Mine. Then I got his before he could shoot again. And when he done fell, he smashed his ol' gun. That was sure some luck."
"But why," Johnson said, much amazed, "why didn't you get him then? It ought to have been easy."
"No kattridges," said Moffatt briefly.
Shortly afterwards, night coming on, he proposed that Lafe go ahead into the Jug and make certain Jiminez was not there. If the place were empty, they could find shelter therein for the night; likewise flour and bacon and beans, and pots to cook them in. Save for weakness, part of which was the result of hunger, the outlaw did not appear greatly distressed from his wound, which had stopped bleeding.