But here, again, appearances were all wrong. Will’s mood at that moment was dissatisfied, suspicious. He was yearning for the flesh-pots of town, as exampled by the bad whiskey and poker in Silas Rocket’s saloon.
Lying on the ground, close against the hut wall, two low-looking half-breeds in gaudy shirts, and wearing their black hair long and unkempt, were filling in the time waiting for breakfast, shooting “crap dice.” The only words spoken between them were the filthy epithets and slang they addressed to the dice as they threw them, and the deep-throated curses as money passed between them.
No, there was little enough to suggest the traffic in which these men were engaged. Yet each knew well enough that the shadow of the rope was hanging over him, and that, at any moment, he might have to face a life and death struggle, which would add the crime of murder to the list of his transgressions.
Will slowly removed his pipe from his mouth.
“Say, ain’t that grub ready?” he growled. “Hi, you, Pete, quit those dice an’ see to it. You’re ‘chores’ to-day. We’ve got to make forty miles with those damned steers before sun-up to-morrow.”
“Ho, you. Git a look at the grub yourself. Say–––”
He broke off listening. Then he dropped the dice he was preparing to throw, and a look of alarm leaped to his eyes. “I tink I hear hoofs. Hush!”
Will was on his feet in a second. The sullen light had vanished from his eyes and a startled look of apprehension replaced it.
“Those plugs cinched up?” he demanded sharply. 284 And mechanically his hand fell on the butt of one of the guns at his waist.