“No, I suppose not,” snarled their chief. “Couldn’t see nothin’, could I? Empty yer pockets fer I knock yuh all down again!”
Hastily, they complied. In spite of the torture of the rope that bound him, Dick choked back a laugh as each one brought to light handful after handful of the tell-tale nuggets and passed them over to their brutal master.
Returning from his gentle mission, Baptiste La Lond sauntered through the door and made his way unhesitatingly over to the corner where Dick and Sandy lay.
“Ah, ze pretty mounted police boy,” he chortled, prodding Dick with his foot. “Where is ze fine uniform now?”
Dick stared back in defiance, but made no answer.
“Pardon, monsieur!” Mockingly, La Lond bowed low before him. Then he turned to the outlaws with what he considered to be a humorous gesture.
“Ze leetle boy ees feel sick now—so veree sick. He not feel lak talk today.”
One or two of the outlaws guffawed loudly.
“Come out o’ that!” growled Henderson. “Leave that boy alone. We got work to do.”
Baptiste cringed and slunk away from the corner. Turning upon his men, Henderson raised his voice: “Listen tuh me, yuh yellow skunks—I’m boss o’ this party. If yuh don’t believe it, jes’ try some more o’ your funny tricks. None o’ this gold ain’t gonna be divided ’til we get back. The police won’t find much when they come. Do yuh understand?”