"From that day to this—twenty years—I have never set eyes on Sandy McIntire."
"It was a mean trick to serve you, Ferguson," said Miles.
"Yes," said the Scotchman, soberly. "I minded the loss of money, but the loss of confidence was a sore thought too, after all the trust I had put in that man."
Presently Miles rose to go.
"I'll take care of your money, Tom," he said, "and do my best to get it safely to your father."
"Thank you, John."
As Miles left the tent, he did not observe a crouching figure on the other side of it. It was the figure of Bill Crane, a crony of Missouri Jack, in fact, the man who helped him to fleece poor Peabody of his scanty hoard.
Bill looked after Miles enviously.
"I wonder how much money he's got?" thought Bill. "I'd like some of it, for I'm bust. I must tell Jack. I don't dare to tackle him alone."