Ten minutes later the door of the safe swung crazily open, hanging upon a half-broken hinge.
The bony arm and hand of the Skull explored the contents. His fingers grasped the top of the coarse bag which Colonel Gaitskill had placed there a few hours before, and he lifted it out.
“No further seek its contents to disclose or draw its dollars from their frail abode,” the Skull parodied. “The simp put it all in one sack for me and tied the top with a rawhide string.”
His fingers fumbled the contents of the sack through the thick cloth.
“Gosh!” he sighed. “Gold and silver and a little dirty paper money—heavy as pig-iron—and I’m too weak to carry an empty pill-box across the street to a homeopathic doctor.”
Nevertheless, he took the bag with him as he started to leave. At the rear door, he paused at the pallet where Mustard lay sprawled out and a sardonic smile distorted his skull-like face.
“Behold the guardian of this gold!” he muttered. “Strange the South has been the fall guy for this sort of servant ever since the South began. Well, Cæsar had his Brutus, and every colonel has his coon!”
Then he stepped out into the lot and closed the door behind him.
There was the crack of a pistol, and a bullet plugged into the door-jamb.
“You missed, friend!” the Skull called tauntingly. “I had my sharp edge turned toward you!”