“I left the grub. But she didn't touch it. Seems sort of sick to me, like she was poisoned.”
“Jim, didn't I hear you talkin'?” asked Anson.
“Shore. I was coaxin' her. Reckon she ain't so ranty as she was. But she shore is doubled-up, an' sickish.”
“Wuss an' wuss all the time,” said Anson, between his teeth. “An' where's Burt? Hyar it's noon an' he left early. He never was no woodsman. He's got lost.”
“Either thet or he's run into somethin',” replied Wilson, thoughtfully.
Anson doubled a huge fist and cursed deep under his breath—the reaction of a man whose accomplices and partners and tools, whose luck, whose faith in himself had failed him. He flung himself down under a tree, and after a while, when his rigidity relaxed, he probably fell asleep. Moze and Shady kept at their game. Wilson paced to and fro, sat down, and then got up to bunch the horses again, walked around the dell and back to camp. The afternoon hours were long. And they were waiting hours. The act of waiting appeared on the surface of all these outlaws did.
At sunset the golden gloom of the glen changed to a vague, thick twilight. Anson rolled over, yawned, and sat up. As he glanced around, evidently seeking Burt, his face clouded.
“No sign of Burt?” he asked.
Wilson expressed a mild surprise. “Wal, Snake, you ain't expectin' Burt now?”
“I am, course I am. Why not?” demanded Anson. “Any other time we'd look fer him, wouldn't we?”