“His name is Schnitzenhauser, isn’t it?”
“Something like that.”
Bernritter took another look through the window. The Dutchman, whistling blithely, had left the chuck-shanty. Every once in a while he would turn around to wave his cap and throw a kiss to the plump-faced Frieda, who stood in the door.
Bernritter watched until Schnitzenhauser reached his horse, untied the animal from the post, and climbed into the saddle. Frieda, by that time, had vanished from the door.
“There he goes,” muttered Bernritter. “Jacobs, we must plan to get the Dutchman suspected! That will carry suspicions away from us—at least, until the redskins help us make our big clean-up. Then we’ll pull out with all the gold our horses can carry.”
“A good plan,” returned Jacobs, casting a wary, guilty glance around the office. “But how is it to be done?”
“Listen,” said Bernritter, leaning close to his confederate and sinking his voice to a whisper.
With their heads together, the two scoundrels plotted together for several minutes; then, hearing a heavy step on the walk outside the door, they drew apart suddenly.
The door opened, and a tall, thin man with a gray mustache, booted, spurred, and covered with the dust of a long ride, pushed into the office.
“How are ye, lads?” cried the newcomer heartily, dropping into a chair. “Just in from Phœnix, and just sent my horse to the corral. How’s everything been going at the mine since I left?”