The plebes lost no time about the matter; they opened the creaky door and the whole six of them hurried in to superintend the all-important burial ceremony.
Their figures had scarcely been lost in the darkness before the other two stole out of the woods and halted at the edge of the clearing. The two were stooping low, creeping with the stealth of catamounts. So silent were they there was not even the snap of a twig to betray them, and when they stopped they scarcely dared breathe as they listened. One of the crouching figures clutched a revolver in his hand; the other’s fists were clinched until the nails dug into his flesh. His teeth were set, and his eye gleamed with a hatred and resentment that he alone knew how to feel. Bull Harris felt that his time had come, the time he had waited for, for two long months of concentrated yearning.
There were sounds of muffled laughter from inside, and the thud of the spade that some one was using. Bull glanced at his companion.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
And the other nodded, though his hand shook.
“Are you afraid?” hissed Bull. “It is a risk, for that fiend of a Texan may fight. You may have to shoot. Do you hear me?”
Once more Chandler nodded, and gripped the revolver like a vise.
There was not another word said. The two crouched low and stepped out of the shadow of the bushes. Silently as the shadows themselves they sped across the open space. And then suddenly Bull halted again; for the sound of murmuring voices from inside the little building grew audible as they advanced.
“B’gee, it’s a regular Captain Kidd business! I don’t think Bull was a success as a Kidd, that is, if you spell it with two d’s. He——”
“Say, Mark,” interrupted another voice, “do you remember the time that ole coyote tried to lock you in hyar? Doggone his boots, I bet he don’t try that very soon again.”