“Yes.”
“That not him. First man guard cave; other one guard vallee. American boy say him lif with Injun in America. Him creep on both. Jump on backs. Fix them. Tie fast and gag. Old Joe Crowfoot teach American boy trick. Him take clothes from both men all he need. Brigands see him then in dark think him one of them. You want see American boy? Ha! ha! ha!”
“May I be shot!” growled the disgusted Texan. “I’m the biggest fool outside the bughouse, you hear me!”
Then, with a swift movement, he reached out, caught at the muffling robe and jerked it away, flinging it aside.
The gray light of dawn was in the eastern sky toward which the face of the supposed guard was turned. It was a laughing face, that of a daring American boy—Dick Merriwell!
“Brad, you’re easy,” he cried.
“Dead easy!” admitted Buckhart. “But you’re a wonder!”
They looked back. Cavendish and Flavia had permitted their horses to slow down. Their figures could be seen against the pearl gray of the sky. He leaned toward her—she leaned toward him—their lips met.
Dick and Brad were too far away to hear her whisper:
“My Charlee!”