Wellesly guessed that they wanted money and were trying to force him into making an offer. He held to his determination and while they talked he saddled and mounted his horse. Then they tried to beat down his resolution by picturing to him the certain death he would meet on the waterless plain. In his heart he was really very much afraid of that scorching, sandy waste, but he let no sign of his fear show in his face as he curtly replied: "I'm very much obliged to you for all your concern about my welfare, but I'll be still more obliged if you won't worry about me any more. I'm going back and I'm going to start now, and if you are so sure I'll get lost and die you can come along a week or so later, hunt up my bones and collect the reward that will be offered for news of me." At that suggestion Jim glanced hastily at Haney and Wellesly saw the Englishman shake his head in reply. "We don't want to be responsible for your death, Mr. Wellesly," Haney began, but Wellesly cut him off short: "You won't be. I release you from all responsibility, after I leave you. Good morning, gentlemen." And with a cut of the quirt his horse started. They had been standing near the lower end of the head of the canyon, and as he moved forward the two men sprang in front of him, blocking the narrow pass which gave the only outlet. "Will you let me pass?" demanded Wellesly, his lips white and his voice trembling with anger. "We're not ready for you to go yet," said Haney, all the joviality gone from his face and voice. His look was that of brutal determination and his voice was harsh and guttural. Jim added an oath and both men drew their guns. "Then, by God, we'll shoot it out!" cried Wellesly, whipping his revolver from his pocket. The hammer fell with a flat thud, and with an angry exclamation he clicked the trigger again. With furious haste he went the round of the cylinder. Jim and Haney stood grinning at him, their guns in their hands. "Something the matter with your pop-gun, I reckon," said Jim. Wellesly opened it and looked through the empty cylinder. Then he put it carefully in his hip pocket, rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle and looked the two men slowly over, first one and then the other, from head to foot. At last he spoke: "Well, whenever you are ready to make your proposition I will listen to it." "We 'aven't any proposition to make," Haney replied. "We're not ready to leave 'ere yet, and we're not willing for you to risk your life alone on the desert. That's all there is about it."