“Friends, Mr. West. Just a minute.”
It took them scarce longer than that to free him 282 and to get him into the open. A Mexican woman came screaming out of an adjoining cabin.
The young men caught each an arm of the capitalist and hurried him forward.
“Hell’ll be popping in a minute,” Flatray explained.
But they reached the shelter of the underbrush without a shot having been fired. Nor had a single man appeared to dispute their escape.
“Looks like most of the family is away from home to-night,” Bucky hazarded.
“Maybe so, but they’re liable to drop in any minute. We’ll keep covering ground.”
They circled round toward the sheriff’s horse. As soon as they reached it West, still stiff from want of circulation in his cramped limbs, was boosted into the saddle.
“It’s going to be a good deal of a guess to find our way out of the Cache,” Jack explained. “Even in the daytime it would take a ’Pache, but at night—well, here’s hoping the luck’s good.”
They found it not so good as they had hoped. For hours they wandered in mesquit, dragged themselves through cactus, crossed washes, and climbed hills.