“Sooch dreasure hundings I don’d like,” mumbled Fritz, slowly untangling himself from Ballard and cautiously groping for his shovel and club. “I vish der plame’ coyotes vould go to shleep. Ach, vat a nervousness I got all droo me. I shake like I hat some agues. Sooch a pitzness iss vort’ all der dreasures vat ve findt.”
Suddenly Ballard, clapping a hand over Fritz’s mouth, whispered a hissing warning for him to keep still, and pulled him out of the narrow trail and in between a couple of huge bowlders.
“V-v-vat iss der drouple!” inquired Fritz feebly. “You see a shpook yourselluf, Pallard? I bed you——”
Again Ballard clapped a hand to his companion’s mouth.
“Sh-h-h!” he murmured. “There’s some one coming, right behind us. Not a word, now; not so much as a whisper.”
Somehow, Ballard got it into his head that the man who was following them was Silva. The Mexican, he remembered, was also mixed up, rather vaguely, with Fritz in the treasure hunting. Ballard had it in mind to give Silva a bit of a scare, and so make the most of that midnight experience.
Peering out from their dark retreat, Fritz and Ballard saw a dark figure gliding toward them along the trail. It was impossible for them to discover who the man was. He was in a hurry, that was evident, and a peculiar, musical jingling accompanied him as he came on. The sound was not loud, but more like a tinkling whisper, and barely distinguishable.
But Silva—if Silva it was—did not pass the two behind the bowlders. He halted, so close that Ballard could have reached out and touched him, went down on his knees, and worked at something in the dark. Even with the fellow so near, the heavy gloom successfully hid his identity.
Ballard’s desire for fun was lost in a mighty curiosity. The fellow took something white from his pocket, and, apparently, pushed it under a stone; then, rising, he sped away in the direction from whence he had come.
“Vell, vell!” muttered Fritz. “Vat you t’ink iss dot, Pallard?”