“Takes a lot of dynamite to kill a shepherd,” nodded Dirty.
“Dynamite?” asked Middleton. “A powerful explosive?”
“Concentrated ——,” nodded Dirty.
“Regular old bustem quick. Some son-of-a-goat loaded the stove on us. Must ’a’ been several sticks.”
“Five, I believe,” I replied. “Here is the sixth.”
I opened my hand and showed them a mass of what appeared to be fine sawdust and grease.
“My ——!” cried Dirty, not profanely.
“The old dictionary-digger choked that stick to a mush! Don’t drop it!”
His order came too late. I suddenly realized what I was doing—what I had in my hands—and I cast it down as a deadly thing. Dirty and Ike seemed to sigh with relief, and then Dirty said:
“Lord, I ain’t got much religion. I don’t sabe nothing about Jonah and the Ark, but I sure hands up thanks to whoever is to blame for blocking the trigger of that thing. Amen.”