Securing the other’s revolver, Dick rose to his feet.
“Come on now,” he ordered, “Get up!”
He drove Creel ahead of him to the place where he and Sandy had made camp. In the dim light, Sandy saw the approaching shadows, but as yet was unaware of the presence of a third person.
“Did you bring the moss?” he inquired petulantly. “What kept you so long?”
“Sandy,” Dick’s voice quavered, “come here!” The young Scotchman put down the branch, which he had been breaking into short lengths, and strode forward. His astonishment was unbounded.
“Creel!” he exclaimed. “Where did you find him, Dick?”
“Out there,” Dick pointed. Then, turning upon the old recluse: “Hand over the contents of that poke,” he ordered, pressing his revolver close to the man’s chest.
Creel backed away.
“I haven’t it,” he whined. “It’s gone—gone! Release me, I tell you. I haven’t it.”
“You had it,” said Dick. “What did you do with it?”