Mrs. Crump stared at him, puzzled. Then she tossed away the whip.
“All right,” she assented, sullenly, angrily. “I won’t say another damned word.”
By this time, Mackintavers was somewhere outside. Lewis still stood by the window. Gilbert was presumably down at the automobiles with his prisoner.
But now the voice of Gilbert came to them. It was lifted in a shout of surprise, a shout of aggrieved anger and amazement.
“Hey! Hey, you feller! What the hell you doin’ there? Hey, Mis’ Crump! Hustle out here!”
Those in the shack hastened outside—all except the chauffeur. Scenting further trouble, that gentleman grabbed his plate and again retired beneath the table, to finish his meal in security.
As Mrs. Crump, standing out in the sunlight, surveyed the situation, she became aware that the previously discerned horseback rider had arrived. He had evidently ridden right over the long flank of the hogback, past the mine workings, into the cañon. Fifty yards up the cañon, fifty yards above the two shacks, lay a horse that was weary unto death, a horse that had been ridden hard and furiously, without mercy.
Not far from the horse was something white. This was a piece of new, white paper that had been fastened to Mrs. Crump’s original location notice.
Down below the shacks, between them and the automobiles, was another scrap of white; another piece of white paper fastened over another location notice. Standing only a few yards from the shack, and hurriedly talking to Mackintavers, stood the rider who had just arrived. The man was Abel Dorales. He had just put up those two notices, and he paid no attention whatever to the threatening approach of Gilbert.
“Dorales!” gasped Mrs. Crump, and whirled. “Lewis! Here! Gi’me that gun!”