Dick and Sandy, who had been silent witnesses of the drama unrolling before their eyes, caught their breath in anger. Much as they despised and feared Creel, the unwarranted brutality of the tall man caused them to experience a feeling of sympathy for the helpless old recluse. Dick’s hand flashed to the revolver at his belt, and he had half-started to his feet, when Sandy drew him back.
“Don’t be foolish, Dick,” he trembled. “Keep out of this. We can accomplish more by remaining right here where we are. Look!”
Creel had stumbled dazedly to his feet, gripping the door for support.
“Now,” declared the little man grimly, “I guess yuh understand. Bring it out.”
Creel staggered inside and appeared, a short time later, carrying the box. Both men made a grab for it, but the smaller was the quicker of the two. He flung open the lid of the small treasure-chest and both he and his companion pawed through it excitedly, their faces distorted with greed.
Dick and Sandy, who were watching events with wide-open eyes, were wholly unprepared for the next step in the little drama. In a sudden fury of disappointment, the little man raised the box and sent it crashing to the floor. His expression was awful to behold, his eyes like two bright coals of fire. Nor did his companion contain himself much better. With an oath, he spurned the box at his feet, sending it flying within the room. His cheeks were livid.
“It ain’t here, Emery!” he almost screamed. “It ain’t here! That squaw lied to us. We’re done for. MacGregor got it after all!”
But the other was not so easily discouraged.
“It is here!” he fairly howled in his rage.
With a lightning motion, he turned upon Creel, advancing with outstretched hands—hands that looked like the talons of some huge bird; hands that worked convulsively as they floated toward Creel’s throat. Before the little man’s advance, the old recluse tottered back, throwing up his arms in a defensive gesture.