a hole," he announced, crawling out and rubbing his head.
Mr. Cassidy grinned and ordered his prisoner to one side while he secured the weapon which lay in the hole. Having obtained it as quickly as possible he slid it in his open shirt and clambered out again.
"Yu remind me of a feller I used to know," remarked Mr. Travennes, as he led the way to the hut, trying not to limp. "Only he throwed dynamite. That was th' way he cleared off chaparral—blowed it off. He got so used to heaving away everything he lit that he spoiled three pipes in two days."
Mr. Cassidy laughed at the fiction and then became grave as he pictured Mr. Connors sitting on the rock and facing down a line of men, any one of whom was capable of his destruction if given the interval of a second.
When they arrived at the hut Mr. Cassidy observed that the prisoners had moved considerably. There was a cleanly swept trail four yards long where they had dragged themselves, and they sat in the end nearer the guns. Mr. Cassidy smiled and fired close to the Mexican's ear, who lost in one frightened jump a little of what he had so laboriously gained.
"Yu'll wear out yore pants," said Mr. Cassidy, and then added grimly, "an' my patience."
Mr. Travennes smiled and thought of the man who so ably seconded Mr. Cassidy's efforts and who was probably shot by this time. The outfit of the Bar—20 was so well known throughout the land that he was aware the name of the other was Red Connors. An unreasoning streak of sarcasm swept over him and he could not resist the opportunity to get in a stab at his captor.
"Mebby yore pard has wore out somebody's patience, too," said Mr. Travennes, suggestively and with venom.
His captor wheeled toward him, his face white with passion, and Mr. Travennes shrank back and regretted the words.
