In the room below they could hear cautious footsteps. Evidently Ramon had lost no time in hatching out his plans.
“Lie down, everybody, and sham sleep as hard as yer can,” ordered Pete in a low, tense whisper, “our lives may depend on it.”
The order was obeyed none too soon, for before many seconds had passed they could hear the creaking of the ladder as someone mounted it. Presently, from one half-closed eye, Jack perceived a head poked upward through the trap in the floor. By the light which streamed up from below he saw that it was the cranium of the red-headed man whom he was pretty sure was the author of the warning message which had been carried into their camp.
The man stood still as a statue for perhaps five minutes. During the tense moments Jack’s heart beat as if it would break through his ribs. It was not fear, but intense excitement that thrilled him. The moment was at hand when they would be engaged in a desperate game against terrible odds. What would be the result?
Having apparently satisfied himself that they all slept soundly, the scout of the outlaws descended once more, the ladder creaking under his weight.
“It’s goin’ ter come in a few minutes, now,” whispered Pete, rousing himself, “gimme the rifle, Walt. How many cartridges is in it?”
“Five,” was the disheartening reply.
“An’ we ain’t got another one between us,” moaned Pete. “Wall, it can’t be helped, as the hawk said to ther chicken when he carried her of, leavin’ her numerous family behind. Now, I’m going ter git right by this here opening and the first head that pokes through it gits a crack. We’ll save the cartridges for an emergency.”
“An emergency!” exclaimed Ralph, thinking that if ever there was an emergency the present situation had already arrived at that stage.
They could now hear whispers below, and worse still, the ominous click and slide of repeating rifles being got in readiness for use.