Phil, breathing freely once more and taking himself to task for the carelessness that had almost been his undoing, ventured to peer around the rock again, taking care this time that his foot touched no treacherous stone.
There were five of the rascals in all, big, hulking, villainous looking men and something tightened about Phil’s heart when he saw that the man who was evidently the leader—judging from his authoritative manner—bore a large, ugly scar across his face.
“The leader of the robber gang,” flashed across his mind, his nerves tingling with excitement. “Gee but I’m in luck,” he thought exultantly. “If I could get back the rest of that money, it would sure put the bank on its feet again.”
Then, tense in every muscle, determined to glean as much information as was possible, Phil listened to what “Rocks” Gurney was saying.
“It’s up to you to do something, Murray, and do it quick,” he was addressing the man with the scar, in his usual surly tones. “Them two guys are plumb scared out of their senses. They’ve a hunch they’re going to get a bundle of years out of this fracas and they’ve gone loco over the notion that all they need is money to buy a lawyer and they’ll get out of the whole thing scot free.”
No answer from the leader of the gang, save a deepening of the scowl upon his face. However, Phil noticed that the other outlaws glanced at each other uneasily and drew a little closer to the fire.
“What do they want of me?” asked the man with the scar, at last.
“Money,” answered Rocks, laconically. “Bunches of hard cash.”
“And if I refuse?” asked the leader in the same tone.
“Then it’s set the cops on your trail,” observed Gurney, and at this the man with the scar lost a little of his stolidity. There was a muttering from his followers like the threatening growl of some vicious animal.