He felt that his time had come, as he left Custer and urged his horse toward Cut-throat Canyon. He had long believed, in secret, that his old pard, Tom Terror, was the leader of the Thugs that infested the famous pass; he was confident of it now, and it would be safe to say that, as he rode along, his neck did not itch as formerly.
Three hours had scarcely passed since his encounter with Tom, therefore he expected to find him near the spot where he had stopped the stage.
Whatever the feeling of security that quieted the deserter’s spirits, he drew his pistols as his horse entered the shades of Cut-throat, and then, applying the heavy Mexican spurs which he had strapped to his heels, he went down the canyon like a fugitive from justice.
“Hyar I am, but no Tom,” he said, drawing rein on the spot where he had had his adventure with the Gulch Tiger.
“Hyar’s whar he told me about the bonanza thet beats the Emma King, an’ thar is whar I stood on the tongue an’ listened till I saw Old Jack drivin’ a golden carriage through the streets ov ’Frisco. Why didn’t you wait hyar fur me, Tom? You might hev knowed thet I’d come back jist as quick as I could unhitch, an’ say goodbye to the hosses. Tom, pard, whar ar’ ye?”
He had mentally resolved to go back to his horses when a sound that made him turn, saluted his ears.
“Ah! Tom, you did come!” he exclaimed, for the Gulch Tiger sat before him as natural as life.
“I didn’t think you would come back,” was the answer.
“Not for a share in your bonanza?”
“Mebbe I war fooling you, Jack.”