“Carlos,” said he, in the same cautious whisper, “your head is level. I tell you that man has a pocket-book——”
“I know he has, and we are going after it,” said I, anxious to bring the interview to a close as soon as possible. “If we are missed don’t you say one word. I say, Frank, that Henderson is a mighty mean chap. When he went into the wagon looking for the pocket-book he threw the things all about. He didn’t even take pains to see that they went on the floor, either.”
“The blamed skunk!” said Frank, raising himself on his elbow. “You don’t mean to say that he threw them on——”
“Yes, I do. He threw them all over him. But it is too late to remedy the matter now. I put them off where they belong, and I only tell you this so that you can make him shut his mouth if he begins working his chin too much to-morrow.”
“Dog-gone you! why didn’t you tell me before you touched the things? I would have made him take them off himself. Well, good luck to you! Look everywhere for that pocket-book.”
If Tom had been there he wouldn’t have found any fault with Frank’s parting, for he threw into his grip all the strength that a strong man could. After I had received the assurance that he wouldn’t notice our absence on the morrow, I gathered up the provisions and started for the prairie. Tom was already there, and he was holding by the bridle the two horses which he had saddled, and our weapons laid beside him on the ground. When I told him what work Henderson had made in the wagon he was utterly dumfounded.
“Why didn’t you tell somebody of it?” he asked.
“Because I put the things back where they belong,” I replied.
“Well, you ought not to have done it. That would have made me mad enough for anything.”
“Well, keep still, and let us mount our horses and go on. You can say more about it when we get further away.”