B. M. Bower

“ He glanced at the approaching car, set the canteen in the sand and helped himself to a cigarette from a silver-trimmed leather case. Abington was leaning against the rear fender in the narrow bit of shade when the roadster came down upon him, slowed with a squealing of dry brakes and stopped perforce. In the rocks and deep sand that bordered the road a caterpillar truck could scarcely have driven around the stalled car. ”

“ Within half a mile there was no cover for a man, and the cliffs rose sheer. “You can get out if you want to, Bill,” he said to the prisoner. “Guess you won't go far with them leg irons.”
“Thanks.” The prisoner's voice was perfunctory, and he seemed in ho great hurry to avail himself of the privilege. While the others walked to the stalled car—the deputy watching over his shoulder—the prisoner sat where he was, smoking a cigarette from Abington's leather-and-silver case. ”

“ Abington's questing black eyes rested on the roadster's other occupant, shifted to the driver's hard yet not unkindly face, and he waved the cigarette significantly.
“Better give this fellow a drink, before I empty the canteen.” He nodded toward the slack figure. “And if you'll pardon the suggestion, sheriff, I'd turn him loose for a bit. Pretty rough riding, even when you've got all your hands and feet to hang on by.” ”