"You'd have to be as quick as a
coyote and as light as a cat to do it. What's your idea?"

"Why," replied Bert, "I figure that we might go back to the place where
we first saw him. You can see from the listless way he looked around
that he isn't really on the alert. Then too, he's drinking. If we find
that he's facing our way, I'll make a circuit and get back of him. Then
at the right second I'll make my dash. He probably won't hear me until I
get close to him, and then he'll be so paralyzed, what with the surprise
and the drink, that I'll have my hands on his throat before he can make a
sound. In the meantime, you keep him covered with your knife, and if he
sees me too soon you can let fly."

Melton, a man used to quick decisions, spent only a moment weighing the
pros and cons, looking keenly at Bert the while. What he saw seemed to
satisfy him.

"It's a plucky stunt," he said, "but you're the lad to do it if any one
can. I'd sure like to make that fellow talk before he goes over the
great divide. Come along."

Noiselessly, they reached their former point of observation. The
sentinel still sat there facing their way. The flask was in his hand and
they could see from the way he tilted it that it was nearly empty. His
carbine stood with its butt on the ground and the muzzle resting against
the stump. Crouching low in the thicket, Melton drew his knife from its
sheath, his eye gauging the distance. Bert, who had shed his coat and
shoes, with a parting pat from Tom, made a wide circuit to the left,
creeping along with his body close to the ground and scarcely daring to
breathe. Once a twig cracked beneath his hand and his heart seemed to
stop beating. But no sound came from the unsuspecting sentry, and after
a moment's pause he went on. Soon he reached a point about a hundred
feet in the rear of the Mexican, and behind the shelter of a huge tree
rose slowly to his feet.

For forty feet the undergrowth was thick enough to conceal him. But then
came the little clearing where for sixty feet no concealment was
possible. He did not dare to tiptoe over it, because, if he were seen he
could not get under way fast enough to reach his quarry. It must be a
lightning dash. Once he had run a hundred yards--three hundred
feet--in ten seconds flat. That would give him three seconds or less to
cross the clearing. But a bullet could travel faster still. He drew a
long breath and then, as lightly and swiftly