The two were presently pacing up and down in the bright sunlight. It didn’t seem any more real, either. Their ready flow of words was checked.
“What will the fellows think?” the Rambler kept repeating to himself. “Won’t they give a yell when Jed Warren and I march right up before them!”
“No, I sure can’t get over it, Bob,” Jed Warren exclaimed at length. “I guess I’ll wake up in another minute an’ discover it ain’t nothin’ but a dream.”
Movement—and quick movement—was the only thing which seemed to be able to calm excited nerves and fast-beating hearts.
For some time all Bob Somers could get out of Jed was the fact that he had been captured and imprisoned by smugglers, and for weeks had not breathed the pure air of out-of-doors.
“I can’t make it seem real to me, Bob,” Jed kept repeating blankly. “I can’t, for a fact.”
Reviewing the situation again Bob Somers pictured the astonishment of Sergeant Erskine. He thought of Billy Ashe; of Teddy Banes. And although his sensibilities had never been wounded by the remarks of either he could not repress a feeling of triumph.
They continued pacing to and fro in the yellow glare which filled the narrow gulch until the emotions of each began to slowly subside. Then, feeling that a good meal was far more important than explanations, Bob Somers set to work.
“There’s plenty o’ grub inside that thar room,” explained the former cowpuncher. “They shoved ’nuff in to keep me goin’ for a spell.”
Bob dashed toward the cabin, returning in a few moments, his arms burdened with provisions. He had never felt more joyous in his life.