“There is not much left,” informed Lopez, shaking the jug.
“Then hide it,” said Felipe, who was a half-wit.
Lopez unbarred the kitchen door and placed the jug outside, after which he shut the door and went into the other room.
Sleepy had no idea of where he was nor how long he had been there when he awoke in the dark. His head was splitting and he felt that most of his body had been hammered to a pulp. He had a painful scalp wound, which he examined with his fingertips, and one of his eyes was almost swelled shut.
Investigation showed that in spite of his fall, his sixshooter was still in its holster. For several minutes he lay quiet, trying to remember just what had happened to him.
“Fell into a damned old prospect hole, I suppose,” he told himself disgustedly.
But it was a big prospect hole, he decided, after trying to reach the walls. Twisting his gaze upward he got a glimpse of the sky, a starry circle some distance above him.
“That’s where I came from,” he told himself. “I sure done a regular Santa Claus down that damned chimney. I hope to gosh I ain’t broke nothin’.”
He flexed his legs and arms, which pained him considerably, but he was soon assured that no bones were broken. Moving in directly under the opening he found a ladder, which extended upward. He laughed painfully and rubbed his nose. From somewhere he could hear the soft drone of voices.