“Mebbe,” Brick grinned down at the baby. “I dunno much about ’em, but I’d say that this one is kinda cute. Look at the son-of-a-gun kick.”
Harp looked around quickly and went back to the door, where he listened closely.
“We don’t want to forget where we are, Brick. I’m thinkin’ that the Mostano family will be kinda curious to know how that kid is gettin’ along.”
“I know danged well I would if it was mine,” grinned Brick. “Anyway, it kinda stops ’em from promiscuous shootin’ around here; so we’ll set tight and wait for mornin’.”
“Tha’sall right,” said Harp thoughtfully, “but what are they so anxious to kill us off for? I should think they’d be danged willin’ to let us get out of here.”
“Does look curious,” admitted Brick. “Mebbe they think that they can kill us off and do as they please the rest of their lives. A breed is a queer character, Harp. He prob’ly figures that I’m the law; and when I’m wiped out—blooey goes the law.”
They sat down against the wall, where they could watch both doors, and enjoyed a smoke. The baby began to cry fitfully.
“Betcha it’s hungry,” declared Harp. “They allus weep that-a-way when they’re needin’ food.”
“A sweet chance it’s got of gettin’ a feed tonight.”
But the baby did not appreciate that fact, and raised its voice in lamentations. Brick grew nervous over the prolonged wailing.