The three riders were asleep, the wounded man lying with his head pillowed on Red's lap. Sheridan was not so much on watch as unable to sleep. Quong's eyes were closed but every now and then the lids opened to show glittering slits of wakefulness. Occasionally there were sounds high above as if the cold was loosening, shifting the clay already loosened by the blasting.
Sheridan went over and over the situation, like a squirrel in a revolving cage, getting nowhere, finding no way out.
Once, before they fell asleep with their responsibilities shifted to Sheridan's shoulders, the three riders had whispered together and then talked to Red in a low voice. He had laughed at them but he reported to Sheridan.
"The boys have got an idee that mebbe Quong is in on this deal. Got you an' us to get out the stuff, an' arranged for the rest of his pals to come on an' take it away from us, savin' his face."
"You don't believe that. Red, do you?"
"No, I don't. Not if I'm enny judge of humans. Course a Chink's hard to read. He don't give himself away."
"He risked as much as we did when they threw in the dynamite."
"Yep, but you might have noticed he was well to the rear. But I don't take stock in it, an' I told 'em so."
Now this sinister suggestion returned to Sheridan. Everything was distorted in the face of their dilemma. And, if the air was devitalized, it was also surcharged
