“Getting the lay of things, I’ll bet something handsome,” averred Bernritter. “Did he ask you anything about the cyanid clean-up, Jacobs?”
“Come to think of it,” answered Jacobs, “I believe he did.”
“I thought he was too much interested in Frieda to pay attention to any one, or anything, else around this camp,” remarked McGowan.
“More than likely,” suggested the super, “his fancy for Frieda was only a blind. It’s possible that he has had an eye on the cyanid bullion ever since he struck the Three-ply.”
“Faith,” said McGowan, “I can size a man up pretty well, and if that Dutchman is crooked I’ll be a mightily surprised man.”
“You say, Mr. McGowan,” said Jacobs, “that it is up to me to explain. Well, if that Dutchman doesn’t know anything about the bar, I can’t explain. In justice to me, sir, you ought to overhaul him on the trail, and find out whether he knows anything about the gold.”
McGowan was thoughtful for a moment.
“There’s reason in that, Jacobs,” he answered. “I’ll wrong no man, if I can help it, with unjust suspicions; but, as between you and the Dutchman, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Go to the corral and get three horses.”
A gleam of triumph darted into Bernritter’s eye, and was telegraphed to Jacobs, as the latter left the office.