“Huh?” Allen’s face grew red. “Won’t go? You’re blamed well right it won’t go! Where’s my gold?”
Nick, his hands still in the air, shrugged his shoulders.
“Do whatever you’re goin’ to do, an’ get it over with,” he answered briefly. “You know I ain’t got your gold—that there never was any gold in them bags.”
“Oh, I do, hey?” Allen sneered. “Well, I had two of the bags myself. You took most of ’em, because I had to carry the wheel. How come there’s gold in the ones I got?”
“Listen, Allen,” Nick said coldly. “I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at, but whatever it is let’s have it without wastin’ all this time. You figgered this thing out pretty good. When I went to get my bronc, you probably emptied the rock out of the bags you had an’ put some gold in, just enough to make it look real. Then, with me carryin’ these bags around, you figgered you had a good case against me—that I had time to take the gold an’ put rock in. That’s what you want other people to believe. Well, all right. Now what?”
Allen gazed at him for a moment. Then he smiled sarcastically.
“Great talker, ain’t you? We’ll see how much talkin’ you’ll do later on. Come on, now, get goin’!” His voice sharpened. “Get on your bronc an’ head back for camp!”
“To camp?”
“You heard me! An’ one break an’ I plugs you. Wait a second.” Allen leaned forward, pulled Nick’s gun from its holster and tossed it into the bushes. “All right! Get goin’!”
“Can’t figger this,” Nick muttered, getting on his pony. “Oh, you know blame well I won’t make no break. If you want to go back to camp, that’s up to you—only I don’t see what it’ll get you.”