Shortly afterwards, night coming on, he proposed that Lafe go ahead into the Jug and make certain Jiminez was not there. If the place were empty, they could find shelter therein for the night; likewise flour and bacon and beans, and pots to cook them in. Save for weakness, part of which was the result of hunger, the outlaw did not appear greatly distressed from his wound, which had stopped bleeding. Accordingly the sheriff approached the oval opening, exercising nice circumspection. It looked sufficiently peaceful. An acute, carefully developed instinct for danger told Johnson that none lurked there. "Go on," Moffatt called after him. "He can't shoot, anyhow. No gun. We'll take a chance." "_We_ will? This is me. Not you," answered Johnson. Then he cried in Mexican a friendly greeting, to be on the safe side in the event of Jiminez being in hiding, and strode into the Jug. The opening led into a high and deep cave. It was deserted. In front was a shallow open space, and here were the ashes of fires and some empty bottles and old cans. In a remote corner of the cave, under some dirty sacks, were flour and bacon. "Come on," he said, returning. "Let's go. It'll be dark in a minute." Propping Moffatt with his shoulder, and an arm about his waist, Lafe reentered the Jug. There they spent the night. Before the early coyotes had got into full swing in their morning songs, they were astir and made what breakfast they could. The sheriff was eager to be gone. Who could say at what moment a pair of desperadoes, with prior claims on the Jug, might not ride up the trail? In that event, he knew that Moffatt might be relied upon to act against him, and Johnson was feeling in no humor for further combat. His prisoner's shoulder was very stiff and caused him exquisite pain when he moved; also, he had a slight fever; but these things are borne as visitations of their profession by such men, and Moffatt never questioned the sheriff's demand that they start at once. He pursed his lips and whistled when the darting pains in his shoulder began, but went readily enough. There was a slender ribbon of trail leading from the mouth of the Jug around the mountain peak and down the other side into a wide draw. By following it, said Moffatt, they could hit a road which ran south. "It's eleven miles to it, though, and--wow--what a country. Say, Lafe, what're you going to do with me?" "You're coming to Badger," replied the sheriff. The outlaw gave him a sidelong look. "Oh, well," he said, "if you're set on it, all right." When they had entered the draw after a terrible, sliding descent of the back trail--during which Lafe often bore his prisoner's entire weight--Moffatt spoke up again. "Got any bread?" said he. "You bet. Why?"