Buell then
ordered Herky-Jerky to trail Dick and see where he had gone. Herky refused
point-blank. "Nope. Not fer me," he said. "Leslie has a rifle. So has Bent,
an' we haven't one among us. An', Buell, if Leslie falls in with Bent, it's
goin' to git hot fer us round here."
This silenced Buell, but did not stop his restless pacings. His face was
like a thunder-cloud, and he was plainly worried and harassed. Once Bud
deliberately asked what be intended to do with me, and Buell snarled a
reply which no one understood. His gloom extended to the others, except
Herky, who whistled and sang as he busied himself about the campfire.
Greaser appeared to be particularly cast down.
"Buell, what are you going to do with me?" I demanded. But he made no
answer.
"Well, anyway," I went on, "somebody cut these ropes. I'm mighty sore and
uncomfortable."
Herky-Jerky did not wait for permission; he untied me, and helped me to my
feet. I was rather unsteady on my legs at first, and my injured arm felt
like a board. It seemed dead; but after I had moved it a little the pain
came back, and it had apparently come to stay. We ate breakfast, and then
settled down to do nothing, or to wait for something to turn up. Buell sat
in the doorway, moodily watching the trail. Once he spoke, ordering the
Mexican to drive in the horses.
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