“Got the nitro here yet?”

“Brought it up this mo’nin’ myself.”

“How much?”

“Twelve quarts.”

“Any dynamite in camp?”

“Yes.  A dozen sticks, maybe.”

“And three gallons of nitro, you say.”

“Yep.”

“That’s enough to do the job,” Sanders said, as though talking aloud to himself.

“Yep.  Tha’s what we usually use.”

“I’m speaking of another job.  Let’s get down from here.  We might be seen.”

“They couldn’t hit us from the Steelman location.  Too far,” said Bob.  “And I don’t reckon any one would try to do that.”

“No, but they might get to wondering what we’re doing up here.”

“I’m wonderin’ that myself,” drawled Hart.  “Most generally when I take a pasear it’s on the back of a bronc.  I ain’t one of them that believes the good Lord made human laigs to be walked on, not so long as any broomtails are left to straddle.”

Screened by the heavy mesquite below, Sanders unfolded his proposed plan of operations.  Bob listened, and as Dave talked there came into Hart’s eyes dancing imps of deviltry.  He gave a subdued whoop of delight, slapped his dusty white hat on his thigh, and vented his enthusiasm in murmurs of admiring profanity.

“It may not work out,” suggested his friend.  “But if your information is correct and they come up the arroyo—­”

“It’s c’rect enough.  Lemme ask you a question.  If you was attacktin’ us, wouldn’t you come that way?”

“Yes.”

“Sure.  It’s the logical way.  Dug figures to capture our camp without firin’ a shot.  And he’d ‘a’ done it, too, if we hadn’t had warnin’.”

Sanders frowned, his mind busy over the plan.  “It ought to work, unless something upsets it,” he said.

“Sure it’ll work.  You darned old fox, I never did see yore beat.  Say, if we pull this off right, Dug’s gonna pretty near be laughed outa the county.”

“Keep it quiet.  Only three of us need to know it.  You stay at the well to keep Doble’s gang back if we slip up.  I’ll give the signal, and the third man will fire the fuse.”

“Buck Byington will be here pretty soon.  I’ll get him to set off the Fourth-of-July celebration.  He’s a regular clam—­won’t ever say a word about this.”

“When you hear her go off, you’d better bring the men down on the jump.”

Byington came up the road half an hour later at a cowpuncher’s jog-trot.  He slid from the saddle and came forward chewing tobacco.  His impassive, leathery face expressed no emotion whatever.  Carelessly and casually he shook hands.  “How, Dave?”

“How, Buck?” answered Sanders.