Dick’s eyes had widened with understanding and horror. He crouched low, scarcely daring to breathe. A feeling of nausea was followed by a surge of anger and disgust. The two men were vicious and evil—absolutely heartless. At first, he had not recognized the voice of Murky’s companion, but a certain quality in the tone, a peculiar inflection, stirred presently his groping memory. It was the voice of the red-bearded man—the person who had attempted to stop him on the trail!
A short silence was broken by Nichols’ question:
“When do yuh expect to be ready to send the next shipment?”
“It’s about ready now,” came the quick answer. “I was thinkin’ o’ sendin’ it through tomorrow night. If we do, I’m gonna start from the same place I did last time—the little shack near the foot o’ Settlement Mountain. We’ll have eight pack-horses, belonging’ tuh Fred Hart, an’ five o’ our own.”
“Has Hart got much stuff this time?” inquired Murky.
“’Bout three thousand pounds. The rest o’ the shipment belongs to us.”
Dick rose cautiously to his feet and commenced to beat a panicky retreat. It would never do to be caught eavesdropping. If he fell into Murky’s hands at that moment, his life would be forfeit.
Careful as he was, it seemed to Dick that his footsteps must have been heard plainly. A moment later this feeling became a certainty. There came to his ears a startled, anxious exclamation from one of the men.
“Did yuh hear that?”
“It must have been the wind,” reassured the other.