"No one else?"
MacMorrogh shook his head. "No wan."
"You are sure Mr. Adair and Brissac are out of the way?"
"They got Gallagher to push them up to Frisbie's track camp in Misther North's car an hour before dark."
"None of your men are likely to drift in from the other way up the line?"
"Not unless somebody carries the news av the gold sthrike—and there's nobody going that way to carry it. The camp's empty but for us."
Eckstein rose and buttoned his coat.
"You have held your own strikers—the men you can depend upon: how many do we count, all told?"
"Thirteen, counting the five av us here, and the felly that runs the electhric light plant."
"H'm; it's a hell of a risk: thirteen men knowing what only one should know—and what that one should hurry to forget. But your butter-fingered Mexican has left us no choice. Ford knows enough now to send some of us over the road for life. If he got into that car alive, he must never come out of it alive."