"Anybody could pick the lock, I suppose," said Mr. Grigsby, from under his bushy brows. "The thing looks to me like a put-up job. Who was the man that urged you to jump over?"
"I don't know. I'd never seen him before."
"Well, describe him," bade Mr. Adams.
Charley described him as best he could—a medium sized man in white linen suit, with iron-gray hair and short beard iron-gray to match.
"What color eyes?"
"I don't know," confessed Charley, truthfully. "B-black, I think."
"Don't know!" grunted Mr. Grigsby. "After this, notice those things. A man can change his hair, but he can't change his eyes. When you've followed the trail a while, like I have, you'll learn to size a man up at a glance, and never forget him. Kit Carson was a great fellow for that. So was Frémont. Well, the first thing to do is to look for Charley's man. What do you say, Adams?"
Charley's father gravely nodded.
"I agree. Did you see any of that gang go ashore, Charley? Either of the Jacobs cronies, I mean. Jacobs we saw ourselves, in the town."
"No, sir," said Charley. "But they might have gone."