“Well—perhaps I was afraid,” said Alex vaguely. “There are some rough people here among the foreign laborers.”
As he spoke Alex noted with new alarm that the Italian was regarding him sharply. He turned his back more fully to the moonlight. Immediately he chided himself for his stupidity. The move emphasized the struggling sense of recognition in the Italian’s mind, he smartly turned Alex’s face full to the moon, and uttered a cry in Italian.
“Now I know! I know!” he cried exultingly. “I know heem before! And he a spy! A boy spy!”
Rapidly he gave the stranger a distorted account of the strike at Bixton, and Alex’s part in his final discomfiture.
The cowman listened closely. “Is that so, boy?” he demanded.
“Partly. But it was not a strike. It was a simple piece of murderous revenge against one man, the section-foreman. And I helped spoil it.”
“Good. That’s all I want to know,” said the cowboy with decision. “Not that I care one way or the other about the affair itself. It shows you are a dangerous man to leave around loose. I’ll just take you along with me. Come on!”
“Come? Where?” said Alex, holding back in alarm.
“Never mind! Just come!” Securing a new hold on Alex’s arms, the speaker and the Italian dragged him with them back down the gorge.
As they neared the spot at which the dynamite was supposed to be safely hidden, the stranger halted abruptly, studied Alex intently a moment, then sent Big Tony on ahead, after a whispered word in his ear.