“Ain’d dose palls silfer?”
“No, they’re gold.”
“Goldt? Himmelplitzen! I t’ought goldt vas yellow. Dose palls are vite.”
“They’re gold, nevertheless, baron,” said the scout; “yellow gold covered with quicksilver. That is a pile of amalgam—gold and quicksilver as it comes from the plates of a stamp-mill.”
“Py chimineddy! Iss dot some oof McGowan’s lost goldt, Puffalo Pill?”
“I’ll bet my pile it is. Those redskins have dropped us into the place where the bullion thieves have been caching their loot.”
“Und id don’d pelong to us, but to McGowan!”
“It’s McGowan’s gold, all right, baron.” Once more a laugh broke from the scout’s lips. “We’d never have found it if that white villain and those Apaches hadn’t——”
A whistle echoed down the shaft and drifted in along the level to where the scout and the baron were standing, near the pile of amalgam.
“Vat id iss?” whispered the baron, taking a tense grip on the scout’s arm. “Meppy der Inchuns haf gome pack to put us oudt oof der vay.”