“Now, Pop, we ain’t disputin’ yore word,” Rad Schmell said uneasily. “But, snakes, if these here reports are true—”
“But they ain’t, blame it! They ain’t!” Pop shouted. “Listen, Roy! Have you heard anything of some old miner strikin’ it rich at Nugget Camp, then gettin’ robbed of his nuggets? Likely story, ain’t it!” Pop sneered. “If it was true I’d hear about it first thing, ’cause I got a cousin that’s been pannin’ that section for goin’ on two years now. All he ever made out of it was enough gold to fill his back tooth where he bit into a hickory nut without peelin’ it first. Well, Roy?”
The boy hesitated no longer. There was but one thing to do—tell the truth and trust to the loyalty of some of the punchers to stay on the ranch until the boss could get others to fill their places. Two men they could be sure of—Pop Burns and Nick Looker. Nick was not in this crowd.
“Well, Pop, I’ll tell you,” Roy said slowly. “Part of the story’s true. Teddy and I both saw the man who was robbed—in fact, we carried him to the 8 X 8. He was a pretty old geezer. Can’t say how much he was robbed of, because he went under before he could tell us. The doctor’s opinion is that he has a chance to pull through. The bullet caught him in the neck.”
Pop was gazing at Roy with a surprised, hurt stare.
“So it did happen, after all!” the old man muttered. “Say, boys—” his voice was toneless—“what was his name? Do you know?”
“Decker,” Teddy replied.
Pop sprang to his feet.
“Decker! What was his first name?”
“Jerry, I think. He looks sort of like—”