“Well!” exclaimed the scout; “it looks as though there had been doings here, too.”
“Thar has, Buffler,” answered Nomad. “When ther baron an’ me blew in hyar, McGowan lay in a corner, knocked as senseless as I was, back at ther Phœnix hotel. Bernritter an’ Jacobs put up er fight, an’ ther baron got tickled in ther ribs with er bullet, an’ Jacobs got tickled in ther shoulder.”
“Where’s Bernritter?”
“He went out by way o’ ther window, and never stopped ter put et up. I couldn’t chase arter him, kase I was ther on’y man left ter purtect ther gold. I hopes some ’un lays ther pizen whelp by ther heels.”
“So do I!” came from McGowan. “The infernal scoundrel!”
“You think he’s a scoundrel now, do you, McGowan?” queried the scout, turning on the mine-owner.
McGowan brought his fist down on the table with all the strength he could muster.
“I know it!” he declared.
“What happened to you in here?”
“Why, I came with Bernritter to superintend the retorting, and the running of the gold into bars. I was ahead of Bernritter when we came into the room, and I had barely got inside the door when he jumped me from behind.