"I swan! It's a wrench," admitted Cap'n Ira, swerving to point the
muzzle of the revolver at the gray mare.
He looked all about again. Yes, the position was right. If she fell
here, a man with a shovel could easily pry down tons of sand from
either bank upon her in a few minutes. The burial might be done by
himself without any other soul knowing what had become of Queenie.
He cocked the old revolver.
Suddenly the Queen of Sheba gave a snort of alarm. She looked back
over her withers. The light in the cut between the sand banks was
dim. Was somebody coming?
To tell the truth, Cap'n Ira had a vision of Prudence, having missed
him, getting out of her bed and traveling down through the lots
after him and the old mare. The idea shook him to his marrow, or was
it the weight of the heavy weapon that made his hand so unsteady?
"I swan!" His oft-repeated ejaculation was almost a prayer.
At the moment he felt the sand giving under his feet. The old mare
uttered again her terrified snort. He saw dimly the path behind them
moving--a swift, serpentlike slide. Heavy as the mare was, she felt
the landslip, too.
Cap'n Ira was not a man who easily lost his self-possession. He had
been through too much to show the white flag when danger menaced.
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