“That may suit you,” retorted Nueces.  “Me, I don’t intend for any man that will buck a gun with a lamp to throw in with Kit Foy while I stuff my paunch.  That sort is just the build to do a mile in nothing flat—­and it’s only three miles to the hill.  I’m goin’ now, and I’m goin’ hellity-larrup!  Come on, anybody with more brains than belly—­I’m off to light a line of soap weeds on that hill so this Mr. Pringle-With-the-Punch don’t walk himself by.  If he wants up he’ll have to hoof it around the other side of the hill.  We won’t make any light on the north side.  That Bar Cross outfit is too damn inquisitive.  The night herders would see it; they’d smell trouble; and like as not the whole bilin’ of ’em would come pryin’ down here by daylight.  Guess they haven’t heard about Foy or they’d be here now.  They’re strong for Foy.  Come on, you waddies!”

Mr. Pringle-With-the-Punch, squeezed, cramped, and muddy under the trough, heard this supperless plan with displeasure; his hope had been otherwise.  He heard the sound of hurried mounting; from the thunder of galloping hoofs it would seem that a goodly number of the posse had come up to the specifications laid down by the old ranger.

The others clanked away, leaving their horses standing.  The man Robbins grumbled from saddle to saddle and gathered canteens.  As he filled them from the supply pipe directly above Mr. Pringle’s head, he set them on the ground within easy reach of Mr. Pringle’s hand.  Acting on this hint Mr. Pringle’s hand withdrew a canteen, quite unostentatiously.  An unnecessary precaution, as it turned out; Mr. Robbins, having filled that batch, went to the horses farther down the troughs to look for more canteens.  So Pringle wriggled out with his canteen, selected a horse, and rode quietly through the open gate.

“Going already?” called Robbins as he passed.

Secure under cover of darkness, Pringle answered in the voice of one who, riding, eats: 

“Yes, indeedy; I ain’t no hawg.  Wasn’t much hungry nohow!”

Chapter V

At the foot of Little Thumb Butte a lengthening semicircle of fire flared through the night.  John Wesley Pringle swung far out on the plain to circle round it.

“This takes time,” he muttered to himself, “but at least I know where not to go.  That old rip-snorter sure put a spoke in my wheel!  Looks like Foy might see them lights and drift out away from this.  But he won’t, I guess—­they said his hidey-hole was right on top, and the shoulder of the hill will hide the fires from him.  Probably asleep, anyhow, thinkin’ he’s safe.  I slep’ three hours this morning at the Major’s; but Foy he didn’t sleep any.  Even if he did leave, they’d track him up in the morning and get him—­and he knows it.  Somebody’s goin’ to be awfully annoyed when he misses this horse.”