"Busted a windshield, fur as I know, an' that's all," replied Jackson. "You're bored plumb through your arm. Nothin' busted, is they, Sheridan?"
"No. It'll heal all right." Sheridan spoke confidently. The wound ought to be bathed before bandaging and they had not a drop of water. The suggestion that it was going to be a long while before Bill could get proper attention was beginning to impress itself upon him.
"Did you say two machines?" he asked. Jackson answered.
"Two big ones, filled up. A dozen or more in 'em. They sure got us herded."
Sheridan nodded in grim silence. They were in little better case than had been the bandits in the inner cave. In place of the landslide, the exit was blocked by murderous Chinamen. These were, doubtless, the enemies of Quong, whom he thought he had shaken off in San Francisco. They had come in relentless pursuit. Their presence in the City of Silence was doubly ominous. And there was no food, no water. He turned to Quong, who stood with his arms folded. His face was still placid, but his eyes now gleamed in the flare of the torch like black opals.
"I made a mistake," he said. "We are all likely to pay for it. I left Juan Mendoza behind in San Francisco. I was forced to. Some one else has given him opium, has taken my place as his god. And he has babbled his secret to them in gratitude. He had lost his soul, he was only a shell and he would grovel for the drug after a day without it.
