"And when are you expecting to get out of here?" his guard demanded huskily.
Keller waved his hand with airy persiflage. "No exact information obtainable, my friend. Likely to-day. Maybe not till to-morrow. The one dead-sure point is that I'll make my getaway at the right time."
"There's one more dead-sure point—that I'm going to blow holes in you at the right time," retorted the other.
"Like to bet on which of us is a true prophet?"
Brad relapsed into black, sulky silence.
The hours followed each other, and still nobody came to relieve the guard. Keller could not understand the reason for this, any more than he could fathom an adequate one for his abduction. There was of course something behind it—something more potent than mere malice. If the intention had been merely to kill him, the thing could have been done without all this trouble. But though he searched his brain for an explanation, he could not find one that satisfied.
The answer came to him later in the day. In the middle of the afternoon a horse pounded up the draw to the cabin. Irwin went to the door, his eye still on his prisoner, except for a swift glance at the newcomer.
"How's yore five-thousand-dollar beauty, Brad?" inquired a voice that the nester recognized.
"Finer than silk, boss."
The rider swung from the saddle, trailed his rein, and came with jingling spurs into the cabin.