destroy it unless we have to."

At this moment the Morgan stallion, which I had not noticed before, was
reined back to join our little group. Atop him rode the diminutive form
of Artie Brower whom I had thought down and out. He had evidently had
his evening's dose of hop and under the excitation of the first effect
had joined the party. His derby hat was flattened down to his ears.
Somehow it exasperated me.

"For heaven's sake why don't you get you a decent hat!" I muttered, but
to myself. He was carrying that precious black bag.

"Blow a hole in his old walls!" he suggested, cheerfully. "That old fort
was built against Injins. A man could sneak up in the shadow and set her
off. It wouldn't take but a dash of soup to stick a hole you could ride
through a-horseback."

"Soup?" echoed Buck.

"Nitroglycerine," explained Watkins, who had once been a miner.

"Oh, sure!" agreed Buck, sarcastically. "And where'd we get it?"

"I always carry a little with me just for emergencies," asserted Brower,
calmly, and patted his black bag.

There was a sudden and unanimous edging away.

"For the love of Pete!" I cried. "Was there some of that stuff in there
all the time I've been carrying it around?"