Job was just going over the hill to Mormon Bar, on that narrow place where the bank pitches down to the creek two hundred feet, when he heard a voice, emphasized by a ringing bullet, cry:
"Halt, you thief! I'm the sheriff of Grizzly county!"
Whether it was because Dick stumbled and almost fell, or because his strength failed, or because of the bullet and the strange command, Job halted, stunned, to look into the dark barrel of a pistol and to see the white, masked face of a slim fellow in blue jean overalls and with a red handkerchief about his throat.
"Hand over that boodle mighty quick! Thought I was a sheriff, did yer? Ha! ha! None of your back talk! Give it here or swallow this!" poking the pistol into Job's very mouth. The voice was familiar—more than once Job had heard it.
He sprang from Dick to run as the other held his bridle, but heard the whiz of a bullet past him and felt a stunning blow on his head. When he came to, the treasure was gone and he could hear a horse's hoofs pounding faintly In the distance. On his side, with the blood oozing from his temples, Dick—poor Dick—lay dead!
It was a long walk back to the mine, and the first morning shift was going to work when Job reached there. The superintendent heard his tale, and without comment told him to get his breakfast and go to work. Later he called Job in and asked some very strange questions. Twice during the following day with aching head and troubled heart Job tried to get another interview with the superintendent, but failed.
How it came about he never knew, but before the end of the week it was common gossip around the mine that Job had made way with the company's bullion to clear off the mortgage on Andrew Malden's place. Job had never heard of the mortgage, and he tried to tell the superintendent so; but he would not listen. All he did was to tell Job on Saturday night that they did not know who took the money, but they would need his services no longer.
It was just as Andrew Malden was locking the doors for the night, that—with a small bundle thrown over his shoulder, shamefaced, discouraged, and so tired he could hardly walk another step—Job pushed in and sat down in the old rocker. The older man was surprised enough. What did it all mean? Job had soon told his story—the night ride, the robbery, the long walk back to the mine, the strange suspicion that had fallen on him, the refusal to believe his story, the coldness of his employers, his dismissal, and the sad walk home. He told it all through, then looking up into Andrew Malden's face, said brokenly:
"God knows, uncle, it's true, every word!"