CHAPTER IX
"The first half chance we get," whispered Deveril, guardedly, "we've got to sneak out of this! Lie still; I can see them without moving. That man with the hawk face is turned this way."
He could see neither Joe nor Taggart in the dugout. Gallup he could see, barely across the threshold now, watching Taggart and the Mexican. The man Shipton, evidently fagged from a hard day of it, had slumped down on the log that served as door-step, and faced outward, save when now and then he half turned to glance curiously at the sheriff and his captive.
"So we nabbed you, eh, Mexico?" gibed Taggart. "You damn little tricky shrimp! To think you could put one across on me!"
"Gatham you!" shrilled Joe. "You big t'ief, you try one time an' you see! I ain't do nothin' to you; I got the right...."
"Oh, shut up!" muttered Taggart impatiently. "Dry your palaver for once. I'll give you chance enough to spill over when I get good and ready." Outside Lynette and Deveril heard a sound which, in their hunger, they were quick to read aright; Taggart, also hungry, had stepped to the stove and had dragged a heavy iron frying-pan to him, investigating its content. "Phew!" growled Taggart. "You infernal garlic hound! Well, the jerked meat ought to go all right. And coffee, huh? Come on, boys; we'll feed up, and then we'll tell Joe what's in the wind."
"I ain't got much grub," Joe shouted back at him. "An' I need it mysel'. You go...."
There was the sound of a blow and of scuffling feet, the thudding of a body against the wall.