“Well, what of it?”
“Dick,” admonished the guide, “you, Sandy no think today. No think at all. Crazy like fool. What good is mine today if get killed tomorrow?”
“Look here, old Trouble-Face,” Sandy sang out, “you’re a joy killer. I don’t think there’s the least bit of danger.”
“Danger all time,” stubbornly persisted Toma.
Dick’s eyes wandered back to the trap in the floor. He visualized the moose-hide sacks, bulging with gold. He wondered if Sandy had not been mistaken about those three passages.
“The Indians won’t come today,” he decided.
“Don’t worry, Toma. Besides——”
He paused to watch Sandy throw the coil of rope into the shaft and then walk back and tie the end, still in his hands, to a large iron hook in the wall—a hook that had, apparently, been put there for that express purpose.
He turned again to Toma.
“Come on, let’s go down. It’ll take only a few minutes.”