"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.
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