“Ye’re a cool one,” he responded after a moment’s hesitation.  “Ye’d better be thinkin’ of sayin’ yer prayers instead of eatin’.  Rustle a little grub fer ’im, Red, though it seems plumb sinful to waste good chuck on a feller that’s as good as dead already.”  And with this ominous remark he went out, accompanied by the man who had identified the captive, leaving Bert alone with his jailer.

“Red” got together some cold meat and beans and placed them on the floor within Bert’s reach.  He ate heartily, knowing that above everything else he must preserve his strength.  And while he ate his mind was busy.

At any rate, he had a little respite.  It would be at least two hours before noontime, and many things might happen before then.  He did not disguise from himself that his situation was desperate.  But, though there might be but one chance in a thousand of escape, he was determined to find and seize that chance.

His feet had been tied in such a manner that while, if he stood up, he would be able to take steps a foot apart, he could by no possibility run away.  The knot at each ankle was skillfully looped in cowboy fashion, and under the watchful eyes of “Red” there was no chance to unfasten them.  His knife and pistol had been taken from him, as well as his watch and money.  So thoroughly had he been “frisked” that, as he felt his pockets carelessly, he found that nothing had been left except a bunch of keys that the rustlers had disdained as booty, and a convex piece of glass that belonged to an old telescope that he had been taking apart a day or two before.

As his hand came in contact with it a thought sprang into his mind that sent his pulses leaping in wild delirium.  Could he do it?  Why not?

Without any pretence of concealment he drew it with the keys from his pocket and fingered it idly, looking out of the window as though his thoughts were far away.  “Red” looked at the articles, recognized their harmless character, and with an indifferent grunt went on smoking.

The fierce sun of the dog days was coming hotly through the open window.  Still handling the glass dreamily, Bert brought it in such a position that its convex surface gathered the rays of the sun into one blistering shaft.  This he directed on the center of the rope that stretched between his feet.

Slowly but surely it began to darken.  The tiny threads of which it was composed twisted and shriveled and broke.  Bert hunched up his knees, and sat as though rapt in brooding contemplation, while all the time that tiny shaft bored deeper and deeper into the rope like a red hot iron.

For half an hour this continued until Bert was convinced that the rope was burned to the core, and that under a vigorous effort it would snap like thread.

He moved around uneasily, fidgeting and twisting with an occasional groan until “Red” unbent sufficiently from his surly indifference to ask him “what was eatin’ of him.”