"But—Larry, oh, it's horrible! I hate myself for saying it—but, oh,
Larry, he's taken a sack with him. I saw it."
"Yes, boy."
"Listen! Oh, Larry, s-s-h—"
Matt Larson turned on his back, every nerve strung to snapping pitch. Two whispering voices assailed his ears. The horror of them seemed to grip his heart and stop its very beating. Fox-Foot was speaking.
"You's not a good man. I hate you. You's bad all over, but I have to trust you. You got me cornered. Here's the gold, same's I promised. You take half. I take half. You hide it. Bime-by when I get them out of this, I come back, then we divide. But you sure hide it now, hide it. Good. GOOD."
Then came the reply in English, good English. There was only one voice in all the world that had that hissing, snaky sound, and Larry knew it to his cost. It was the voice of the man in the mackinaw, and it was hissing:
"Bet your life I'll hide it, Fox-Foot, and you're a good, decent Indian boy. You shall have half, sure, but get both of those dogs out of here. Get 'em away, right off."
"I scairt," replied the Indian, "I clean scairt. When he finds out, maybe he kill me. I got no knife, no gun—nothing. I scairt."
"Here, take my revolver," replied the man. "And I tell you, Fox-Foot, if they kick up, you put a bullet clean through them, both of them."
"Sure. Give me it," said the Indian in a soft, oily voice. Then, "Now, now, I feel safer with that inside my shirt."