In the bright daylight, he looked like a grotesque creature with long, windblown white hair and a straggling, dirty-white beard.
But Jack was not inclined to chuckle. The old fellow had an intensity of purpose which was frightening. He was chattering to himself, but the only word the listening pair could distinguish was: “Gold.”
Then, as they watched, the old man turned his half-glazed eyes toward the bush where they crouched. In that instant Warner obtained his first direct look at the withered, weather-tanned face.
“Well, what d’you know!” he whispered. “It’s Joe Hansart!”
Chapter 22
TRAPPED
The gaunt man who had crawled from the mine pit did not see them crouching in the dense thicket. He stood facing them, however, a revolver dangling carelessly at his belt. He was a grotesque, powerfully built fellow amazingly agile, and he was wearing a ragged, red-wool shirt and an open, tattered leather jacket.
As Jack and the rancher watched, Joe Hansart wheeled and trotted off over the rocks in the general direction of the pass.
“We missed our chance to nab him,” Jack said, emerging.
“Yes, but he has my gun, and it’s probably loaded,” Warner replied. “If he sees us he may shoot. The poor old fellow seems completely off his rocker.”
“You know him?”