Pratt was in no mood to be “funny.” He hesitated just a moment. But Frances exclaimed:
“Do as he says! Don’t wait!”
So out rolled the chest. Mack was grumbling to himself on the front seat; but if he was armed he did not consider it wise to use any weapon. The man with the rifle had everything his own way.
“Now, drive on!” commanded the latter individual. “I’ve got no use for any of you folks here, and you’ll be wise if you keep right on moving till you get to that Peckham ranch. Git now!”
“All right, old-timer,” grunted Mack. “Don’t be so short-tempered about it.”
He let the mules go and they scrambled up the bank, drawing the wagon after them. The chest lay on the river’s edge. Pratt Sanderson had climbed upon his pony again.
“You two git, also,” growled the man in the tree. “I got all I want of ye.”
Pratt groaned aloud as he urged the grey pony after Molly.
“What will your father say, Frances?” he muttered.
“I don’t know,” returned the girl, honestly.