His caution still clung to him, it seemed, and he took nothing for granted. As systematically as clock-work that bushy head would be raised and turned around in every direction. Then, as if convinced he had nothing to fear, the digger would once more get down to work and deepen the hole he had already made.
Apparently, whatever he was after must be buried at some considerable depth below the surface. Already he had quite a good-sized pile of loam heaped up.
Then, all of a sudden, he seemed to take the alarm, for the boys saw him flatten out until he "looked like a flapjack on the ground."
At the same moment a distant sound, as of the regular beat of a pony's hoofs, was faintly borne to the ears of the watching boys. They all understood what it meant, knowing that Buster Lightfoot had been missing at supper and was believed to be far off on the range looking up strays.
He was now returning on a tired pony, and doubtless himself as hungry as a wolf. Yes, now the boys knew he was turning Buckskin into the corral, after which they could see him heading for the bunk-house, his burly frame looming up in the slanting rays of the failing moon.
Buster knew better than to make any undue racket when returning at so late an hour, for he would have had the rest of the boys about his ears like a swarm of angry bees. He would find plenty of food laid aside for him by the experienced Charlie Gin Sing, and after disposing of the bread and meat and the hot coffee contained in an enormous thermos jug, he was expected to turn in for the rest he so sadly needed.
In due time all was quiet again, and the digger once more tackled his job, with a stubborn spirit worthy of admiration. Lanky liked his nerve in thus taking such great chances of being discovered and caught, when he might expect to be given a good hiding.
It would seem as though the man with the spade must attain the object of his search before long, since the hole was already of some depth. As a consequence the boys found themselves more worked up than ever.
Lanky discovered that his right arm was feeling prickly all over. He knew what that meant, for it was not the first time his arm or leg had gone to sleep from a continuous pressure of some sort.
His intention was to change around and lean with his left arm, if only it could be managed, for he surely did not wish to lose sight of things at this critical stage of the affair.