“Uh course he’ll last--a heap sight longer than yuh-all will, if yuh-all don’t get a move on,” Monty gritted savagely. “Fill up with water and take a lunch, and don’t light this side of Vegas. Not much use stopping at the ranches this side, they ain’t liable to have what we need.” He stood with his legs spread apart on two rocks and watched Joe down the bluff. Whenever Joe looked back and saw Monty standing there, his speed was accelerated appreciably. Whereat Monty grinned. When Joe disappeared into the grove, Monty turned back to the shaft, the weight of Gary’s misfortune heavy upon his soul. The first thing he saw was Patricia caressing a grimy hand and thin, bared forearm. She had just kissed it twice when she looked up and saw Monty. Patricia did not even blush. “He drank every drop of the milk, and now he’s called me a wretch and a harpy because I won’t give him more,” she announced triumphantly. “Do you think I’d better?” “I reckon I better talk to him by hand,” Monty grinned relievedly. “He knows mighty well he kain’t bully _me_, Miss Connolly.” “I merely asked for fried chicken and gravy and mashed potatoes and asparagus with drawn butter, and ripe olives and a fruit salad with a cherry on top, and strawberry shortcake with oodles of butter under the berries and double cream poured all over,” Gary explained, grinning like a cheerful death’s-head through the opening. “That isn’t much to ask--when a fellow’s been dieting the way I have for God knows how long.” Monty blinked very fast, and his laugh was shaky. “Well, now, if yuh-all can compromise on boiled hen,” he drawled, “I’ll beat it back down the bluff and shoot the head off the first one I see.” “Oh, all right--all right, if it’ll be any accommodation,” Gary yielded, “only for heck’s sake, make it snappy!” Whereupon he forgot Monty and pulled Patricia’s hand in through the opening and began to kiss it passionately. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR LET’S LEAVE THEM THERE Love adapts itself to strange conditions when it must, and men and maids never find it less alluring. Eight days Gary had been imprisoned in the crosscut, and thought it a lifetime of misery. Yet the four days which he remained still a prisoner, but with Patricia perched upon the bowlder practically all of the time, the entombment became an adventure, something to tell about afterward as a bit of red-blooded pioneering that seldom falls to the lot of men nowadays. It is true that Monty was there, pecking away at the bowlder with single-jack and gadget much of the time; but Patricia during those hours moved just far enough away to escape the swing of Monty’s hammer, and the dialogue went on--mostly of things altogether strange to Monty Girard. Gossip of the city, plans for “The Pat Connolly” mine--in which Monty was of course included.