“You an' Greaser had the job. Both of you—went to sleep—take thet from me!”
“Wal, he's gone, an' he took the kid's gun with him,” said Bill, coolly. “Now we'll be dodgin' bullets.”
Dick Leslie had escaped! I could hardly keep down a cry of triumph. I did ask if it was true, but none of them paid any attention to me. Buell then ordered Herky-Jerky to trail Dick and see where he had gone. Herky refused point-blank. “Nope. Not fer me,” he said. “Leslie has a rifle. So has Bent, an' we haven't one among us. An', Buell, if Leslie falls in with Bent, it's goin' to git hot fer us round here.”
This silenced Buell, but did not stop his restless pacings. His face was like a thunder-cloud, and he was plainly worried and harassed. Once Bud deliberately asked what he intended to do with me, and Buell snarled a reply which no one understood. His gloom extended to the others, except Herky, who whistled and sang as he busied himself about the campfire. Greaser appeared to be particularly cast down.
“Buell, what are you going to do with me?” I demanded. But he made no answer.
“Well, anyway,” I went on, “somebody cut these ropes. I'm mighty sore and uncomfortable.”
Herky-Jerky did not wait for permission; he untied me, and helped me to my feet. I was rather unsteady on my legs at first, and my injured arm felt like a board. It seemed dead; but after I had moved it a little the pain came back, and it had apparently come to stay. We ate breakfast, and then settled down to do nothing, or to wait for something to turn up. Buell sat in the doorway, moodily watching the trail. Once he spoke, ordering the Mexican to drive in the horses. I fancied from this that Buell might have decided to break camp, but there was no move to pack.
The morning quiet was suddenly split by the stinging crack of a rifle and a yell of agony.
Buell leaped to his feet, his ruddy face white.
“Greaser!” he exclaimed.