“Well, we done a pretty neat job, I’ll tell ’em,” said the smaller man, apparently relieved.
“Well, I reckon I knowed what I was sayin’ when I telled yer it was easy; jes’ like doin’ sums, that’s all; as easy as divvyin’ up this here swag. Ten men that’s a-sceered ain’t as strong as one man that ain’t a-sceered. All yer gotter do is git ’em rattled. Ony yer gotter know yer way when it’s over.”
“Yer know yer way all right,” said the other, with a note of tribute in his voice.
“Yer ain’t looked inside yet,” said the master. “Neat little bunk fer a lay-over, I reckon. Ony kinder close. ’Tain’t fer layin’ low I likes it ’cause I like it best outside, ’n we’re as safe here. Ony in case o’ sumthin’ gone wrong we got a hole ter shoot from. With me inside o’ that nobody’d ever git inside of three hundred feet from it. I could turn this here hill inter a graveyard, I sure reckon. Yer hungry?”
“Supposin’ any one was to find this here place?” the other asked. “You said ’bout sumthin’ goin’ wrong maybe.”
“Well, he wouldn’ hev the trouble o’ walkin’ back,” said the tall man grimly.
Just then Westy, who had scarce dared to breathe, took advantage of the stirring of the strangers to glance toward his friends in the cleft. The little camping site looked very cosy and inviting. But even as he looked his blood ran cold and he was struck with panic terror. For standing at the brink of the rivulet was Warde Hollister, his hands curved into a funnel around his mouth, ready to call aloud to him.
Westy held his breath. His heart thumped. Every nerve was tense. Then he heard the screeching of one of those great birds flying toward the crags in the twilight. He waited, cold with terror. . . .
CHAPTER XIII
WARDE AND ED
“Don’t call to him,” said Ed. “As long as we haven’t got our fire started yet, what’s the use calling? He likes to be alone, sometimes; I know Westy all right. Don’t call.”