“You don't get none, old girl, not if we find a ton,” Shorty assured her.
But she was no more disappointed than they. Though the very floor was dug up, they discovered nothing.
“I'm for roastin' him over a slow fire an' make 'm cough up,” Shorty proposed earnestly.
Smoke shook his head reluctantly.
“It's murder,” Shorty held on. “He's murderin' all them poor geezers just as much as if he knocked their brains out with an ax, only worse.”
Another day passed, during which they kept a steady watch on Wentworth's movements. Several times, when he started out, water-bucket in hand, for the creek, they casually approached the cabin, and each time he hurried back without the water.
“They're cached right there in his cabin,” Shorty said. “As sure as God made little apples, they are. But where? We sure overhauled it plenty.” He stood up and pulled on his mittens. “I'm goin' to find 'em, if I have to pull the blame shack down a log at a time.”
He glanced at Smoke, who, with an intent, absent face, had not heard him.
“What's eatin' you?” Shorty demanded wrathfully. “Don't tell me you've gone an' got the scurvy!”
“Just trying to remember something, Shorty.”