Mr. Cook shook his head, and was, apparently, about to hand the sheet back to its owner when he stopped, straightened up, made another close survey of it and then said:
“Sink, let me have your mysterious paper to-night. I’d like to look it over.”
“I ain’t objectin’ to yer lookin’ it over,” answered Weston, “so long as ye keep yer hands on it. But, Colonel Cook, I wouldn’t part with that dockymint fur the best oil well yur agoin’ to find in Utah.”
Old Doolin’s head was nodding.
“Well,” suggested the manager, in a low tone to Weston, “just to be sure it ain’t mislaid, if you’re thinkin’ of escortin’ Dan to his bunk now, come back in an hour and I’ll return it to you.”
This was as good as a command to Weston. A few minutes later, arousing the well-dined teamster, the two men disappeared in the direction of the “Crater.” The uncouth freighter dispensed with the formalities of a good night to his host, but, as he followed his friend out into the sandy street, he did not fail to mutter:
“The kid’s shore all right. An’ we brung him, didn’t we, Sink?”
Plainly enough, the tale of the Sink Hole was not on Old Dan’s mind.
“What is it?” exclaimed Roy, impetuously, as the two men disappeared. He knew that Mr. Cook had an idea. Without answering at once, his host walked to the bookcase, and returned with the little Mormon Bible that had been taken from the hand of murdered “Utah” Banning.