While the trapper stood in the room surveying the board partition, the mumble from the other side of it came tantalisingly to his ears. The sound was louder than when he had heard it across the corridor, but it was still impossible to distinguish words.
The snoring of the drunken man interfered with the sounds, and Nomad was ripe for some desperate move which might have spoiled everything, when his eye lit upon a knot in one of the boards of the partition.
The knot was about two feet above the floor, and was so warped from the board that it looked as though it might be easily removed. With hope mounting high, old Nomad drew a knife from his belt and sank to his knees.
Timing his prying with the long and regularly recurring snores of the drunken man, Nomad got out the knot with his knife-point; then, lowering his head, and stopping one ear with his finger to keep out the snores, he was pleased to find that the talk of Jacobs and the other man could be plainly heard.
“You understand that part of it, Bascomb?” Jacobs was saying.
“Sure,” answered the man referred to as Bascomb. “I kin send a couple o’ light-fingered lads ter attend ter the hotel end. Now fer the rest o’ it.”
“Buffalo Bill will certainly take hold and help McGowan.”
“It was a bad move o’ your’n, gittin’ Buffler Bill’s pard mixed up with that thar gold-brick.”
“That was Bern’s idea, but I guess he understands now the move was bad. Buffalo Bill will go to the mine by the Black Cañon trail—it’s the most direct route, and whenever he goes any place, I understand it’s the beeline and a keen jump fer him.”