“Gosh, it’s cold!” he observed, throwing off his blankets and pulling on his boots. Thus finishing dressing operations, he rose. Their camp was just outside the rock crevice which gave access to the inner cañon. “Might’s well git us some hot coffee while we’re makin’ that fire. I’ll rustle up some bresh along the slopes while you’re gittin’ the grub. Little skillet layin’ in my pack for the side-meat. We got lots o’ time—they wont disciver our smoke until after sunup.”
He shuffled off toward the slopes on the right, and disappeared in the darkness. Ramsay went to work at breakfast, preparing the coffee with the last of their water and slicing up some bacon.
Getting some dry and dead twigs together, Ramsay heaped them in readiness to build a fire. As he rose, a voice suddenly impinged sharply on his consciousness.
“Up with ’em, stranger—reach high and quick!”
He put up his hands, and turned. There, standing at the rock opening through which he must have come unobserved, stood the tall, stooped figure of Gentleman Jimson, his pistol covering Ramsay.
“What you doing here?” demanded Jimson. “Who you looking for?”
His rifle out of reach, Ramsay knew himself caught. His brain worked swiftly.
“I’m looking for Tom Emery,” he said, raising his voice in order to warn Sagebrush, whose proximity was evidently unsuspected.
“Oh, looking for Tom, are you?” Jimson sneered. “On what business?”
“That’s for him to hear,” returned Ramsay. “Sidewinder told me to camp here until morning. You’re Jimson, I s’pose?” The other was momentarily astonished. “What! Sidewinder sent you here, did he? Where’s Mesquite?”