Don was about to make a hasty reply, but Clay seized him by the arm and drew him to one side. The boy was shaking with anger.
“Keep cool!” Clay warned. “We’ll get into that house, all right, but we’ll do it without permission from him.”
Flint and Ike went away while the two boys talked together. When they had disappeared down the river, the lads finished their breakfast and prepared for a visit to the old mine. It was nearly seven o’clock when they came within sight, from the south, of the building. They had been climbing for three hours or more.
At first they saw no one on the old dump, but before long they saw a heavy, flabby man in a broadcloth coat and silk hat working away at the front door of the house. Don’s voice shook as he said:
“That’s Josiah Trumbull! I guess he’s got me at last!”
“Looks more like you had him!” Clay retorted. “He seems to have a key to that door. I reckon he’s been here before.”
“A good many times!” Don replied. “Too many times!”
“I wonder if King is anywhere about?” asked Clay. “I don’t think Trumbull came here alone. I hope he’ll get kicked out of the house, if he gets in!”
Trumbull unlocked the door and swung it open. The house was in the shadow, for it was on the east side of the canyon, but there was a strong light across the great cut, where the morning sun was shining on the rocks. Trumbull stopped in the doorway, lighted a cigar, drew a long breath and turned to enter.
Then two quick shots came from the interior, and Trumbull crinkled up on the slice of stone which stood for a platform in front of the door. Thinking only of the tragedy which had taken place before their eyes, and not of themselves on their own safety, Clay and Don ran forward and bent over the fallen man. They saw in a moment that he was quite dead.