A little night breeze rustling the willows about us brought into my mind
the fact that our masked acquaintances could easily sneak up and pot us
if, as an afterthought, they decided to do a really workmanlike job.
Doubt it? Wasn't the dead man stretched in the shadow convincing proof
of their capacity for pure devilishness? Read the history of those days
along the line, and you'll turn some red pages. There were no half-way
measures in the code of an outlaw then; the pair who held us up would
have taken our lives as nonchalantly as they relieved us of our material
possessions had we proved in the least degree troublesome.

I hinted what was in my mind to MacRae, and when he agreed that it was a
possible contingency, we filed out of the treacherous light and squatted
in the edge of a quaking-asp grove where we couldn't be seen, and where
a coyote, much less a man, couldn't steal up on us without the crackle
of dry brush betraying him.

"What do you think you'll do, Sarge?" Mac whispered to me, while we sat
there undecided as to our next move. "Go on to Benton, or stay here on
the chance of breaking even?"

"I've got to stick; it's the only thing I can do," I growled back. "I've
been sure enough whipsawed this deal, but I'm still in the game, and
when it comes to calling the last turn I'll be there with a stack of
blues. How in hell can I show my face in Benton while some other fellow
is packing the money La Pere trusted me to bring back? If I can rustle
horses I'll send these two boys on home, with a note to the old man
explaining how the play came up. If those jaspers flash any part of the
roll in the Territory before snowfall, I'll get them. I've got to get
them, to square myself."