swung on a shaky tripod. The smell of melting pitch was distinct and brought the blood boiling to Sheridan's brain, his finger to his trigger. A man was testing the stuff.
"Poco mas," he said. "Casi" (A little more. Almost ready.)
He was sweating beneath his clumsy mask and he lifted it to wipe his face. Sheridan saw it plainly in the glow of the fire. It was Pedro, brother to Juanita, one of Hollister's most devoted henchmen.
Two men brought out another from the shadow. It was Quong, stripped naked, hands bound, feet hobbled. His yellow face showed no emotion. It might have been carved from bone.
Sheridan stole back to Jackson and his horse.
"You ride around the head of the arroyo," he said. "Plenty of cover. When you hear me shoot, stampede the horses. Get them going hard and then you can help me round up the gang. I'll have them milling by the time you come," he added, quietly, as he mounted. Jackson rode off without a word and Sheridan walked the mare to where he had stood behind the arroyo. Pedro was still stirring the sticky tar, stubborn to become liquid enough for their purpose.
"Ahora!" (now), he said, as he tested it.
The men crowded towards him with cursing laughter, dragging Quong. Sheridan's gun spurted fire. Pedro dropped the ladle with an oath, clutching at his wrist, reeling back. His foot caught the clumsy tripod and the pot slumped upon the fire,
