Another half hour passed, and then a hail came from the blackness of the woods and they could just catch a glimpse of something white like a handkerchief that was thrust on a stick from behind a tree.
“Ahoy there,” came a voice. “I want to talk with you.”
“Oh you do, do you,” called Benton sarcastically. “Why didn’t you say so before? I thought that what you wanted was to cut our throats.”
“No,” came the voice. “We were not going to do you any harm. All that we wanted was to get the treasure, which belongs to us as much as it does to you.”
“That’s interesting,” replied Benton, “seeing that we got it and you didn’t. But if you’ve got anything to say, you infernal scoundrel, come out here in the open and say it.”
“And your men will not shoot?” asked the voice.
“No,” answered Benton, “not unless you try any treachery, and then may heaven have mercy on you for we won’t.”
A figure emerged from behind the tree and still holding the flag of truce came toward them. Benton halted him when he had come within ten feet of the cave.
“Stand right where you are,” he commanded. “And remember, Ramirez, that we have you covered, and at the least sign of any crooked business you’re a dead man. Now get on with your palaver, for you’re breaking into my night’s sleep.”
If Benton expected that his coolness would daunt the rascal, he counted without his host, for the latter betrayed no signs of trepidation.