"Down!" whispered Deveril. "Down! There's three or four of them...."
She dropped in her tracks, he at her side. They were in the little clearing; if they went back it would be to run into the arms of the men down there; if they went ahead it was to go straight on to Joe's dugout. If they sought to turn to right or left, they must go through the longest arms of the clearing, and must certainly be seen. The only shadows into which they might slip were cast by the clump of willows grouped in a span of half a dozen yards, and not over as many steps, from Joe's door....
"Into the willows!" whispered Deveril. "Quick! It's our only show."
They crawled, wriggling forward, inching, but inching swiftly. Behind them they heard voices, and a sudden running of heavy boots; before them they heard a pot or pan dropped against Joe's stove, and then Joe's excited muttering and the scuffle of Joe's boots. They scrambled on; Deveril dragged himself, with a sudden heave, into the fringe of the willow thicket; at his side, so close that elbow brushed elbow, Lynette threw herself. They saw Joe come running out of his dugout; they saw him pause a second; he could have seen them, surely, had he looked down. But his eyes were for the cañon below, from which the sudden voices had boomed up to him. And now came a voice again, that first voice, shouting threateningly:
"I got you covered, Joe! With my rifle. And I'll drop you dead if you move! You know me, Joe ... me, Jim Taggart!"
Still Joe hesitated ... and was lost. Up the steep slope came Jim Taggart, and behind him Young Gallup; and after Gallup, Gallup's man, Cliff Shipton. And every man of them carried a rifle, held in readiness. Joe began to swear in Spanish, his voice shaken, quavering with the fear upon him.
Deveril put out his hand until it lay upon Lynette's arm; his fingers gave her a quick, warning squeeze. Taggart and the others were coming on swiftly; it was almost too much to hope that they could pass and not see the two figures outstretched in the willows. Still, there was the chance, slim chance as it was....
If only Joe, poor stupid fool, as Deveril savagely called him in his heart, would make a bolt for it! Then there'd surely be such a drawing of their eyes to him that they would not see a white elephant tethered at the door! But Joe stood as if his feet had grown into the ground. Save for his continued mutterings, as Joe poured forth his eloquent Spanish curses, he would have appeared a man bereft of all volition. And Taggart and Young Gallup and Shipton came on at a run. Deveril clutched his club; he turned an inch or two to be ready. Lynette, lying so close to him, felt his body stiffen and guessed his purpose, and this time it was her hand closing tight upon his forearm, warning him to hold to caution as long as there was hope.
The three came steadily on, hastening all that they could up the steep slope. A moment ago, when first Taggart called out, Joe might have eluded them had he been lightning-swift and ready to take chances. But now that he had hesitated, it was clear that his most shadowy hope of escape was gone. He stood motionless, cursing them and his luck.
Babe Deveril's fingers were tight, as tight as rage could weld them about his oak stick. At that moment he could have welcomed the excuse to leap out with the unexpectedness of a cataclysm and the rush of a catapult, to heave his club upward and bring it down, full force, upon Taggart's head. For now he had the added rancour in his heart that Jim Taggart, with his following, had chosen this one moment to come up with them, just as Babe Deveril was counting in full confidence upon the first square meal in twenty-four hours. Taggart, less than threatening his safety, was stealing the supper which he had counted on having from Mexicali Joe.