“There is plenty of game there, is there not?” questioned Tom.
“Yes, for them that knows how to shoot.”
“Then I reckon we will not starve. What other objection is there?”
“The Jones Boys. You watch out right smart for them.”
“Who are they?” demanded Elfreda, who had been an interested listener to the conversation between Tom and the postmaster.
The postmaster glanced about him apprehensively before replying, then, leaning towards Tom, spoke in a half-whisper.
“Outlaws!” he said. “I reckon you’ve heard of them. It is suspected that they’re the fellows that held up the Red Limited the other night. I reckon you know something about that affair.” The postmaster squinted knowingly at Tom, who nodded.
“So, that’s it, eh?”
“Yes. Better look out for them. They have their hang-out somewhere in the mountains, but nobody has ever been able to trail them to it, and I don’t reckon no one ever will—and come back to tell about it. A squad of Pinkerton detectives went into the mountains looking for those fellows, but not one of that bunch of detectives has ever been heard from since.”
“It sounds shivery, doesn’t it?” spoke up Elfreda. “However, we have no especial reason to fear the bandits because there could be no object in their interfering with us. We do not carry money with us—not enough to make it worth their while to try to rob us—nor are we looking for trouble.”