You look a leetle mite like the man. It'll save
vallible time if you make yer dear friend, Buck McKee,
administrater uv yer estate without too much persuadin'. You had
some objection oncet to my slittin' a calf's tongue. Well, you
needn't be scared just yet. That's the last thing I'll do to
you. Come, where's your cache? I know you've got one
hereabouts, fer I foun' signs of the dust in your pack."
Lane set his teeth in a firm resolutions not to say a word. The
taunts of his captor were harder to bear in silence than the
prospects of torture.
"Stubborn, hey? Well, we'll try a little 'Pache persuadin'." And
the renegade dragged his helpless captive up to the thorny
sahuaro, and bound his back against it with the dead horse's
bridle. McKee searched through Lane's pockets until he found a
match.
"Last one, hey? Kinder 'propriate. Las' drink from the old
canteen, las' ca'tridge, last look at the scenery, and las' will
an' testyment. Oh, time's precious, but I'll spare you enough to
map out in yer mind jes' where them claims is located. The
Rurales won't be along fer an hour yet, if they hain't turned
back after our other party."
McKee pulled off Lane's boots. "It 'ain't decent fer a man to
die with 'em on," he said. He then kindled a fire on the stone,
beneath which, if he but knew it, lay the treasure he sought. He
returned with a burning brand to the captive. For the first time
he observed the snake impaled on the sahuaro, writhing but
feebly.
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