“Brack?” gasped the youth, with a frightened glance down the trail. “Foxy Brack?”
“Yes,” I said. “He’s here to rob you. He’s sent one of his lieutenants around the ridge to cut off your back trail. He has ten of the worst men in Christendom with him.”
“Oh, my God!” groaned the young man. Steadying himself he said, “Who are you, stranger?”
I told about the Wanderer and its party, and about the morning’s happenings as swiftly as possible.
“Why did you run the risk of coming here and telling us this?” asked the youth when I concluded. “And how do we know you’re telling the truth?”
“Bill!” said the old man reprovingly. “Can’t you see? Stranger, we take this right neighborly of you. My name’s Slade, and this is my partner, young Bill Harris. Pitt, you said your name was? Well, Mr. Pitt, you’re a man. This Brack, now, he’s a devil. Bill and me saved his life when he come ashore up at Omkutsk, and he spoke us fine and friendly, and acted like a man, and we took him in with us on this gold find.
“Then one day he tried to put us both out of business and we caught him in the act just in time. It’s hard to kill a man when you got him helpless, stranger, though we should ’a’ done it then. We give him a boat with grub, and when the wind was blowing offshore we sent him out to sea. The devil must ’a’ took care of its own, since he’s still living; and now he’s come back to clean us out. We been sort of ’fraid of it all the time.”
“How many d’ you say with him?” queried young Harris. “And all bad men, too, eh? God! There’s only two of us——”
“Bill,” said Slade patiently, “we can’t stay an’ fight him. You know what he is.”
“They’re circling round us now?” Harris was looking around wildly. “We’re cut off.”