"Prepare for death."
It seemed to the listening girl that a devilish tone of exultation rang in his words. She roused herself from her fascinated attention. She was about to urge her horse forward. But a thin, powerful hand reached out and gripped her by the arm. It was "Lord" Bill. His hoarse whisper sung in her ears.
"Your own words—Leave well alone."
And she allowed her horse to stand.
Now she leaned forward in her saddle and rested her elbows upon the horn in front of her. Again she heard Baptiste speak. He seemed to be in sole command.
"We'll give yer a chance fur yer life—"
Again the fiendish laugh underlaid the words.
"It's a chance of a dog—a yellow dog," he pursued. Jacky shuddered. "But such a chance is too good fur yer likes. Look—look, those hills. See the three tall peaks—yes, those three, taller than the rest. One straight in front; one to the right, an' one away to the left. Guess this path divides right hyar—in three, an' each path heads for one of those peaks. Say, jest one trail crosses the keg—one. Savee? The others end sudden, and then—the keg."
The full horror of the man's meaning now became plain to the girl. She heaved a great gasp, and turned to Bill. Her lover signed a warning. She turned again to the scene before her.
"Now, see hyar, you scum," Baptiste went on. "This is yer chance. Choose yer path and foller it. Guess yer can't see it no more than yer ken see this one we're on, but you've got the lay of it. Guess you'll travel the path yer choose to—the end. If yer don't move—an' move mighty slippy—you'll be dumped headlong into the muck. Ef yer git on to the right path an' cross the keg safe, yer ken sling off wi' a whole skin. Guess you'll fin' it a ticklish job—mebbe you'll git through. But I've a notion yer won't. Now, take yer dog's chance, an' remember, its death if yer don't, anyway."