“After what you have told us about him,” puzzled Sandy, “there is one thing rather difficult to understand. Why did a person of his intelligence carry so much wealth about his person.”
“I don’t think he did,” declared Meade.
“If that is so,” persisted Sandy, “why did they follow him and plan the robbery and murder at Frischette’s?”
“Well, there is no doubt that he had a considerable amount of money and gold with him, but no more, probably, than the average prospector. I am positive that he didn’t carry his entire wealth with him. ‘Rat’ MacGregor, or whoever it was that committed the robbery, merely suspected that such was the case.”
Sandy abandoned the issue. Yet neither he nor Dick was convinced. There was that tell-tale poke.
As they sat there, watching the shadows steal out from the darkening woodland beyond, they were presently made aware of a newcomer.
An Indian pony, a pinto mare, left the turn of the trail near the fringe of trees, bordering the river, and came slowly forward. A woman sat astride the pony—a young woman, unmistakably an Indian or half-breed. Meade rose as she reined up in front of the cabin and slowly dismounted. The boys were not particularly interested. They had never seen the woman before.
“Who is that?” Sandy inquired listlessly.
Both boys started at the unexpected answer.
“Heaven help me,” growled Meade, “if it isn’t ‘Rat’ MacGregor’s wife!”