"God, I'm tired," he said. And then, when no one thought to sympathize, he demanded querulously: "Say, Mex, where's your wood-pile?" Gallup laughed at him. "Imagine the lazy hound having a wood-pile! Skirmish around, Cliff, and pick up some dead sticks." Joe had found a stub of candle, and now its pale light vaguely illuminated the dugout's interior. Since there was but the one opening, the squat door, Deveril still saw only Gallup. Gallup by now was sitting upon the narrow bunk at the back of the room, his rifle between his knees, the shadow of his hat hiding his face. Shipton set his own rifle down against the outside wall and began groping with his feet for bits of wood. "It's getting awful dark for this kind of thing," he was telling himself in his eternally complaining voice. "Ain't he got a box or a chair or a table or something in there that'll burn?" he called. No one paid any attention to him and Shipton, scuffling gropingly with his feet, widened his search. And now Lynette and Deveril scarcely breathed. For it seemed inevitable that he was coming straight toward the brushy-fringed spring where they lay. Deveril was now on his left elbow, his body raised slightly, his legs drawn up under him, so that he could readily fling himself to his feet, his oak club in his right hand. Lynette understood and was ready, too; if Shipton came dangerously near, she knew that it was Deveril's intent to drop him in his tracks. Then there would remain but the one thing to do; to leap up and run for it, run blindly, plunging into the nearest shadows, to run on and on while men shot after them. Shipton came nearer. She felt Babe Deveril stir, ever so slightly. Her only concern now was: Would he strike just at the very second that he should? Would he strike a second too early, before it was necessary, and thus needlessly give himself away? Would he strike just a second too late, giving Shipton first the time to see and cry out? "God, I'm stiff and sore," Shipton was muttering. His foot struck something, and he reached down, thinking it was a bit of wood. But it was a stone, dirt-covered, and he kicked at it and came on. Now he was not two steps away. Again he stooped; as he stooped, Babe Deveril raised himself an inch or two higher. But now Shipton found a fragment of a pine log, half rotted and of little use as fuel. But in his present mood it served him; he picked it up and turned back to the dug-out. Lynette heard Deveril's slowly expelled breath. Within there was a scraping of frying-pan on stove top. They saw a tin plate handed to Gallup on his bunk; Gallup began eating, noisy about it; eating like a dog. Shipton went in with his log. Taggart caught it from him, broke it up by striking it against the hard-packed dirt floor, and began stoking the stove. A fresh gush of sparks shot up from Joe's chimney. Shipton was demanding to be fed ... and for God's sake give him a shot of coffee.