“Well, what is it, Nick?”
“I’ve been tryin’ to say,” announced the barkeeper, whose face wore an expression of uneasiness as he pointed to the window, “that I have seen an ugly-lookin’ greaser hanging around outside.”
“A greaser!” exclaimed the Girl, uneasily. “Let me look.” And with that she made a movement towards the window, but was held back by Johnson’s detaining hand. All too well did he know that the Mexican was one of his men waiting impatiently for the signal. So, with an air of concern, for he did not intend that the Girl should run any risk, however remote, he said authoritatively:
“Don’t go!”
“Why not?” demanded the Girl.
Johnson sat strangely silent.
“I’ll bolt the windows!” cried Nick. Hardly had he disappeared into the dance-hall when a low whistle came to their ears.
“The signal—they’re waiting,” said Johnson under his breath, and shot a quick look of inquiry at the Girl to see whether she had heard the sound. A look told him that she had, and was uneasy over it.
“Don’t that sound horrid?” said the Girl, reaching the bar in a state of perturbation. “Say, I’m awful glad you’re here. Nick’s so nervous. He knows what a lot o’ money I got. Why, there’s a little fortune in that keg.”
Johnson started; then rising slowly he went over to the keg and examined it with interest.