Westy knew that he was in great peril. He knew that these two men were desperadoes, probably train robbers, and that they would not suffer any one to know of their mountain refuge and go free. He believed that the odds and ends of conversation he had overheard related to one of those bizarre exploits of the Far West, a two-man train robbery; or rather a one-man train robbery, for it seemed likely that one of the men had not been an expert or even a professional. For the leader of this desperate pair Westy could not repress a certain measure of respect; respect at least for his courage and skill. The other one seemed utterly contemptible. There is always a glamour about the romantic bad man of the West, dead shot and master of every situation, which has an abiding appeal to every lover of adventure.
Here was a man, long, lanky, and of a drawling speech, whose eye, Westy could believe, was piercing and inscrutable like the renowned Two Pistol Bill of the movies. This man had said that no one could trail him and that no trail was so difficult that he could not follow it. Truly a most undesirable pursuer. One of those invincible outlaws whose skill and resource and scouting lore seems almost to redeem his villainy.
Westy knew that he was at the mercy of this man, this lawless pair. He knew that his safety and that of his friends hung on a thread. One forlorn hope he had and that was that darkness would come before the boys started their fire. Then these ruffians might not see the smoke. And perhaps they would fall asleep before Warde or Ed shouted. Then he could take his chance of descending and rejoining them. All this seemed too good to be possible and Westy had one of those rash impulses that seize us all at times, to put an end to his horrible suspense by making his presence known. One shout and—and what?
He did not shout. And he prayed that his friends would not shout. If he could only free himself and let them know! But even then there was the chance of this baffler of dogs trailing him and his companions and shooting them down in these lonely mountains. And who would ever know?
And just then he learned the name of this human terror who was smoking as he lolled in the dusk on the rock below. He was evidently a celebrity.
“That’s why they call me Bloodhound Pete,” drawled the man. “Nobody can corral me up here; thar ain’t no trail ter this place ’n nobody never knowed it. But I knowed of it. I a............