The old driver’s countenance fell.
“Foolin’ me—Old Jack, yer pard?” the old fellow said dazedly. “I’ve left the route, desarted my hosses, turned my back on Custer—for a share in the big bonanza that beats the Emma King—”
Tom Terror laughed.
Jack gritted his teeth; that cruel cachinnation sent the last bird of hope screaming from his avaricious heart. It dissipated his dream of gold.
“Tom, you don’t mean all thet thet laugh said,” Jack cried. “Is thar really no bonanza—”
“Thar’s one for every man, but he must get it for himself,” was the interruption as heartless as the laugh.
The rough hand of Jack Drivewell had glided to the revolver that rested at his right thigh, but his eye was fixed on the figure before him.
“Hold on, Jack! Draw that weapon and you’ll hunt for bonanza in a kentry where they don’t hev any,” said the Canyon Thug, sternly, as the driver’s hand touched the butt of his pistol. “Go back to the road and you’ll strike one some day.”
“I can’t do thet, Tom. I’ve left the road. From this night I’m Old Jack, the Bonanza Hunter.”