Shorty and Pete exchanged a quick look but made no sound. Both were disheveled and Shorty’s face was swollen and caked with dried blood. Yet his eyes blazed defiantly and about his bruised lips played a sardonic smile. Pete, erect and defiant, strained cautiously at the ropes that bound his arms. Both the prisoners divided their glances between Black Jack and Kipp.
“Where’s Fox?” snapped Black Jack.
“He ain’t dead, if that’s what yo’re drivin’ at,” returned Kipp.
Black Jack seemed relieved at hearing this bit of news.
“Miss him?” he sneered. “Er lose yore guts at the last minute?”
“Neither.” Kipp was gathering his addled wits. “How long have I bin knocked out?”
“Ten minutes, rough guessin’,” grinned one of the men who had taken him from the pit.
Kipp, thinking of Tad, calculated swiftly. Fifteen minutes had passed since the two had parted. That meant that in fifteen minutes more, Tad would be riding along that trail into a similar trap perhaps.
“Got ary more uh them —— holes around here fer a man tuh fall into?” he growled, feeling gingerly of his head.
Black Jack laughed harshly.