Caruth jumped up, white but vicious looking. “That’s the third time you’ve asked me that,” he exploded. “Do you mean to insinuate——”
“Not at all! Not the least bit in the world. I’m just theologizing. You’ve treated me square, and I ain’t dangerous to nobody who does that. But I’m exacerbated over that letter. I wouldn’t mind doing the ingenuous thing by anybody that helped me to guess it.”
The frown faded from Caruth’s face, and an expression of thought took its place. “I’m too much in the dark to help you much,” he parried.
Without the least hesitation the plainsman thrust forward the letter. “Maybe this’ll help you,” he suggested. “This here is a copy. I’ve got the aboriginal cached where it’ll be safe. But this is all to the accurate except that it’s got two or three names of places left out. I ain’t givin’ the whole thing away, you understand.”
Caruth took the letter with a hand that trembled in spite of himself. He did not want to read it; to do so seemed a sort of dishonor—a lack of consideration for the desires of Miss Fitzhugh. On the other hand, it would be madness to let slip what might very well be his only chance to acquaint himself with a letter she had bought and paid for and with facts that might spell life and death to him and to her.
His uncertainty must have showed in his face, for the other encouraged him. “Go ’long!” he said. “Read it. It won’t bite none.”
Caruth opened the letter. It read as follows:
Dear Jim:
There’s been a fight and everybody on board is dead or dying. The Orkney is sinking, and we’re all due to drown if we live long enough. It was the gold. A million pounds and more. Petroff told us about it, and we jumped the officers. They fought hard, but we worried ’em down. Then the second mate fired the magazine. Petroff and I are fixing a bottle. We are in the * * * between * * * Get the gold if you can. No more from
Your Brother