“I’ll go first,” whispered Hashknife. “One man only makes one target. If the coast is clear, I’ll whistle a tune, and Sleepy, you and Jimmy come over there.”
Hashknife kept well in the shadow in crossing the patio, and in a minute or two he began whistling. Sleepy and Jimmy crossed to the bunk-house, where the door was open. Hashknife lighted the lamp, which was on a table about midway of the room.
Then he motioned Sleepy and Jimmy back to the doorway, where he followed them out, closing the door.
“Duck down as low as yuh can and sneak back to the house,” he whispered. They got back to the house and crept silently in.
Hashknife stepped in close to a rear window, where he could get a clear view of the patio, and watched through a break in the curtain.
“If he didn’t see our horses, he’ll think we’re in the bunk-house,” said Hashknife. “If he seen us leave our horses and do an Injun sneak, he’ll know we’re on to him, and prob’ly fog away from here.”
“Do you think it’s the man who has been trying to kill me?” asked Jimmy.
“Might be.”
Suddenly Hashknife jerked back. A blinding flash filled the room, followed by a terrific jarring crash, which fairly threw them off their feet. The lamp was extinguished; pictures fell from the walls, and a moment later the house seemed to be bombarded with missiles from every angle.
Hashknife had fallen back against a table, but now he got to his feet, groping in the dark. Sleepy was swearing dazedly. Dust and smoke eddied in through the broken windows, and with it was the odor of dynamite; the unmistakable scent of nitroglycerine.