He tiptoed to the door: no one was in sight, but he stepped outside and again made the round of the glade. Coming back, he took the precaution to close the door when he reëntered the hut.
At the fireplace again, he stooped and put both hands upon a stone half-way up one side of the rude chimney. As he had foreseen, it came away in response to a little lift—Gard’s hiding-place for his treasure had been a most casual thing at best—and a recess lay revealed.
Again Broome listened for sounds outside, ere he lifted first one, then the other, of the two buckskin bags that lay before him.
They were not large; but they were very heavy, and a peep into one revealed the yellow gleam that he had expected.
The little eyes glittered, and the man’s fingers opened and shut, clawlike, but he closed the bag, tying its buckskin string, and put it back. There were some papers with the bags, but he would look at those later.
He fitted the stone back into place, scrutinizing it keenly afterwards, to be sure that he had left no signs of his meddling.
“The sneakin’ cuss!” he snarled, moving back from the chimney. “He’s got a mine up here! That’s what he was so sly about last night. He’s gone there now, an’ he thinks he’ll keep me out of it. I’ll bet he’s up there covering his tracks.”
He was outside, now, muttering wrathfully. “No ye don’t, my smart coyote,” he sneered, “Yer kin just bet yer sweet life Thad Broome sits in this game, sure!”
He went the rounds again, scouting eagerly, till his trained plainsman’s eyes detected a faint trail leading over the rocks at one side of the stream.
It was but the suggestion of a pathway, trodden by Gard’s moccasined feet, but it was enough for the pryer’s sharpened senses. A moment later Broome had skirted the pool, and was hot on the scent.