And Dard sensed that he was facing a dangerous man, a menace far worse than Hew Folley or any of his brutal kind.
“Suppose you tell me what has happened?” the man added.
“Roundup raid—last night,” Dard returned laconically, his initial relief at the other’s coming considerably dampened. “We thought we had escaped. I came up to leave that message for Lars.” He motioned to the rag. “When I got back Lars was dead—killed by the neighbor who probably set them on us. So Dessie and I came here to wait for you.”
“Peacemen!” the man spat. “And Lars Nordis dead! That’s a bad piece of luck—bad.” He made no move to put away the gun he held. It resembled a hand stun gun, but certain peculiarities of the stub barrel suggested that it was more deadly a weapon than that.
“And now,” the man moved a step or two in Dard’s direction, “what do you expect me to do with you?”
Dard moistened dry lips with a nervous tongue. He had not considered that, without Lars and what Lars had to offer, the mysterious underground might not wish to burden themselves with an untrained boy and a small child. Grim necessity was the law among all the present outlaws, and useless hands coupled with another mouth to feed were not wanted. He had a single hope…
Lars had been so insistent about that word pattern that Dard dared now to believe that he must carry his brother’s discovery in that memorized design of lines and numbers. He had to believe that and impress the importance of his information upon this messenger. It would be their passport to the underground.
“Lars had finished his work,” Dard schooled his voice to conversational evenness. “I think you need the results—”
The man’s head jerked. And now he did put away that oddly shaped gun.
“You have the formula?”