"I'll give you three minutes, Nestor," the leader finally said,
"to tell me where the papers are. At the end of that time,
if you remain obstinate, I'll order you shot. Decide!"
Jimmie twisted and wiggled about until he became fearful that
the noise he was making must disclose his presence, but Fremont
did not cast a look in his direction. The leader stood grimly
in the foreground with watch in hand. The seconds seemed to
Jimmie to be running by like a mill-race.
"Two minutes."
Fremont's face did not change, except for a slight tightening
of the lips. Jimmie listened intently for the sound of a drum
on the mountain side below. It now was quite light, and the
watcher could see every movement made by the men he believed
to be brigands and their prisoner. A chill of terror ran
through his veins as he saw the ragged squad examining their
guns as if they expected to use them at the expiration of
two more minutes.
"One minute."
The leader snapped out the words viciously; his evil eyes
sparred for an instant with those of his captive and were
then lowered to the ground. Jimmie took his revolver
from his pocket and held it ready for action. As he had
declared to the drummer, it was his deliberate intention
to shoot the leader an instant before he gave the order
to fire. He knew that the discharge would point out his
place of concealment, and did not doubt that the volley
intended for Fremont would be turned upon himself, but
the knowledge did not swerve him from his purpose.
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