“Don’t I draw even a Libby Prison allowance?” the American wanted to know.

“You eat and you drink after you have signed the paper,” Pablo told him.

“I always did think we ate too much and too often.  Much obliged for a chance to work out my theories.”

Gordon turned his back upon them, his face to the wall.  Presently, in spite of the cramped position necessitated by his bound arms, he yielded to weariness and fell asleep.  Sebastian lay down in a corner of the room and also slept.  He and Pablo would have to relieve each other as watchmen so long as they held their prisoner.  For that reason they must get what rest they could during the day.

Menendez found himself the victim of conflicting emotions.  It had been easy while they were plotting the abduction to persuade himself that the man would grant anything to save his life.  Now he doubted this.  Looking clown at the battered face of the miner, so lean and strong and virile, he could not withhold a secret reluctant admiration.  How was it possible for him to sleep so easily and lightly while he lay within the shadow of violent death?  There was even a little smile about the corners of his mouth, as if he were enjoying pleasant dreams.  Never had Pablo known another man like this one.  Had he not broken the spirit of that outlaw devil Teddy in ten minutes?  Who else could shoot the heads off chickens at a distance as he had done?  Was there another in New Mexico that could, though taken at advantage, put up so fierce a fight against big odds?  The young Mexican hated him because of Juanita and his opposition to Miss Valdes.  But the untamed and gallant spirit of the young man went out in spite of himself in homage to the splendid courage and efficiency of his victim.

Not till the middle of the afternoon did Gordon awaken.  He was surprised to find that his hands were free.  Of Menendez he asked an explanation.

Pablo gave him none.  How could he say that he was ashamed to keep him tied while two armed men were in the room to watch him?

“Move from that bed and I’ll blow your brains out,” the Mexican growled in Spanish.

Presently Pablo brought him a tin dipper filled with water.

“Drink, Senor” he ordered ungraciously.

Dick drank the last drop and smiled at his guard gratefully.  “You’re white in spots, Mr. Miscreant, though you hate to think it of yourself,” he said lightly.

Odd as it may seem, Gordon found a curious pleasure in exploring the mind of the young man.  He detected the struggle going on in it, and he made remarks so uncannily wise that the Mexican was startled at his divination.  The miner held no grudge.  These men were his enemies because they thought him a selfish villain who ought to be frustrated in his designs.  Long ago, in that school of experience which had made him the hard, competent man he was, Dick had learned the truth of the saying that to know all is to forgive all.  He himself had done bold and lawless things often enough, but it was seldom that he did a mean one.  Warily alert though he was for a chance to escape, his feelings were quite impersonal toward these Mexicans.  Confronted with the need, he would kill if he must to save himself; but it would not be because he was vindictive.