“Where were they goin’ to take you, Buddy?” asks Hashknife.
“Me dunno,” Buddy shakes his head. “Sim Sellers says he’s takin’ me where you fellers never will find me.”
“Hey!” yells a voice from the hall, which we recognizes as belonging to Sol Vane. “Can yuh hear me?”
“If yuh don’t yell too loud,” answers Hashknife.
“Now listen; that shed beside you is containin’ about five hundred pounds of dinnamite, caps and fuses. Come out and hold up your hands or we’ll shoot into it until we blows yuh up. Do yuh hear that?”
Me and Hashknife looks at each other. It’s a good bluff. I don’t care a whoop who says nay, I’m here to state that dynamite might go off under them conditions. Some of them hombres are shooting .50-110 rifles, which carries a explosive bullet, and that might make things plumb audible around us.
“Talk to ’em, Sleepy,” grunts Hashknife. “Keep talking, for ——’s sake!”
“You mean, you’d blow us up, Sol?” I asks, as Hashknife slides past me and gets against the building.
“He, he, he! Think we’d let ye off after what you’ve done? Naw, sir, your goin’ to git all that’s comin’ to yuh. When I give the word we start shootin’.”
Of course they never thought that we had a chance to sneak away into the mesquite, and if they did they knew we’d never leave on foot as long as there’s a chance to get horses.