in
Haskell or Taylorville, I never could understand. That's the principal
reason I've got for thinkin' he an' Mendez are in cahoots, an' if they
be, then the Mexican must have some kind o' a camp out there in the
sand whar he hides between raids; though, damn if I know whar it can
be." He paused reflectively. "It'll be like hunting a needle in the
haystack, Jim, but I reckon you an' I'll have to get out that way, an'
we might have luck enough to stumble onto the old devil."

Westcott changed his position, inadvertently bringing his head above
the protection of the rock. Instantly there was a sharp report, and a
speeding bullet grazed his hair, flattening out against the stone. The
rapidity with which he ducked caused the marshal to laugh.

"Not hurt, are you? No. That was a rifle; Mike isn't such a bad shot
with that weapon. He's over there behind that tree--see the smoke? If
the cuss pokes his head out, I'll try the virtue of this .45; it ought
to carry that far. Hah! there he is; I made the bark fly anyway."

CHAPTER XXIII: THE ESCAPE

The afternoon wore away slowly, the two men realising more and more
clearly the nature of the siege. Their only safety lay in the
protection of the rocks, as they were now entirely surrounded, and
fired upon from either bank the moment either raised a head. No
attempt was made, however, to assault their position, nor did they
often return the fire, desiring to preserve for future use their small
supply of ammunition. Brennan remained watchful, but silent, brooding
over his plans for the night, but Westcott became overpowered by
fatigue and slept quietly for several hours.

The sun was already sinking behind the range of mountains when he
finally aroused himself, and sat up. There was no apparent change in
the situation; the running water murmured musically against the rocks,
the distant banks, already in shadow, exhibited no sign of human
presence. Below in the distance was the deserted street of the town,
and farther away a few of the shacks were visible. The scene was
peaceable enough, and the awakened sleeper could scarcely comprehend
that he was in truth a fugitive being hunted for his life, that all
about him were men eager to kill, watchful of the slightest movement.
It was rather the sight of Brennan which restored his faculties, and
yielded clear memory. The latter greeted him with a good-humoured grin.

"Well, do you feel better, Jim?" he asked plea