The three gathered again about their food, getting a fire lighted and in their clumsy ignorance of the woods heaping on fuel until the yellow flames were leaping high and far. Over such a fire, any cookery was impossible, and Hardrock chuckled at their profane efforts to make coffee without getting the pot too hot to be handled.
He, meantime, while apparently motionless and helpless, was in reality hard at work. He lay, half sitting, against a log between fire and shore, at the clearing’s edge, arms bound behind him. He had been tied up with the first thing to hand—bandanna handkerchiefs produced by the Greeks, and had made the gratifying discovery that the material was old and would tear easily. Therefore he was tearing it, against the log at his back, and by the increasing looseness knew that his wrists were nearly free.
Marks conferred at length with his companions, who were obviously taking their orders from him, and presently the two Greeks rose and stamped off into the darkness along the shore, going toward the point. Marks himself rolled a cigarette and came toward Hardrock.
“If you’re going to starve me,” said the latter, “you might at least starve me on a smoke. Look out your friends don’t get lost.”
Marks laughed easily. “I’ll get you some coffee and a smoke,” he replied, “if you’ll talk. Will you? Or shall I make you?”
“Sure thing,” exclaimed Hardrock. “It’s a bargain. And cut me loose.”
“Not much,” retorted the other, and went back to the fire, where he poured out a tin cup of coffee.
Hardrock seized the instant. His arms came free. Swiftly he got a hand into his pocket—thus far, they had not searched him except for weapons—and slid out his pocketknife. His arms again in place behind him, he opened a blade of the knife, and waited. One cut at his ankles, and he would be free. Without that cut, he dared take no chances, tempting as the occasion now was.
For Marks now came back to him, held the lukewarm coffee to his lips as he drank, then gave him the cigarette and held a match to it. Sitting down and wiping sweat from his face, for it was hot near that big fire, the burly ruffian rolled himself another cigarette. He was almost within arm’s reach of Hardrock—yet the latter controlled himself. Until his feet were free he must attempt nothing.
“Now let’s have it,” said Marks. “I didn’t want them two lard-eaters to get wise. What was it the Sheriff wanted to give us the third degree about?”