Nick eyed him frowningly.
“Allen,” Greyhound said, “here’s some friends of yours. Want to take a little ride with ’em?”
“Don’t kill me!” Allen moaned, trembling violently. “Don’t shoot me! I’ll tell you everything! There’s fifty thousand dollars’ worth of gold in this tent! You can have it all, but don’t shoot!”
“That, boys, is our bootblack!” Greyhound exclaimed, laughing loudly. “What he says is true. You might as well have the gold. I’ll leave it to you in my will.” He laughed again. “If that fellow Decker we shot a month ago is still livin’, some of it belongs to him. He sure worked for it.”
“Jerry Decker!” Teddy cried. “Then he will get his nuggets back!”
“There’s some of it comin’ to you, too,” Greyhound went on, nodding toward Silent. A puzzled frown came to his face. “I can’t understand it,” he muttered. “I can’t understand it a-tall! There you stand with a gun an’ me in front of you, me the feller who killed your folks, an’ you don’t shoot!”
“We’re not like you, Greyhound,” Roy said shortly. “We’re not murderers.”
“Murderers?” The man repeated the word, as though he did not understand. “Oh, that’s what I am, hey? Well, maybe you’re right. Well, that’s all.” His voice dropped. He turned wearily to Roy. “If you’re ready, we may as well start.”
Head down, shoulders bent forward, he started down the long trail just as the sun tossed the first beams over the hills.