“Oh, yes!”
“Must have been a sight of valuables in it,” repeated Mrs. Peckham.
“What about those who went up stream?” asked Frances, quickly.
“There! your friend, Mr. Sanderson, didn’t come back. He went on to Mr. Bill Edwards’ place, so he said. He axed would you lead his grey pony on behind your wagon to the Bar-T. Said he’d come after it there.”
“Yes; of course,” returned Frances. “But didn’t he find any trace of the robber up stream?”
“How could they, Miss Frances, if the boat went down?” demanded Mrs. Peckham. “Of course not.”
It was true. Frances worried about this. Pratt Sanderson had insisted upon leading a part of the searchers in exactly the opposite direction to that in which common sense should have told him the robber had gone with the chest.
“Of course he would never have tried to pole against the current,” Frances told herself. “I am afraid daddy will consider that significant.”
She did not attempt to keep the story from Captain Dan Rugley when she got back home on the fourth evening.
“Smart girl!” the old ranchman said, when she told him of the make-believe treasure chest she had carted halfway to Amarillo, burlapped, corded, and tagged as though for deposit in the city bank for safe-keeping.