"Well, I'll be darned!" breathed the elder man. "Somebody's jumped the cache."
"Perhaps your partner—"
"He's in Sheep Camp." The speaker laboriously loosened his pack and let it fall, then with stiff, clumsy fingers he undid the top buttons of his vest and, to Pierce's amazement, produced a large-calibered revolver, which he mechanically cocked and uncocked several times, the while his eyes remained hypnotically fixed upon the telltale streamer of smoke. Not only did his action appear to be totally uncalled for, but he himself had undergone a startling transformation and Phillips was impelled to remonstrate.
"Here! What the deuce—?" he began.
"Listen to me!" The old man spoke in a queer, suppressed tone, and his eyes, when he turned them upon his fellow-packer, were even smokier than usual. "Somebody's up to a little thievin', most likely, and it looks like I had 'em red-handed. I've been layin' for this!"
Pierce divested himself of his pack-harness, then said, simply, "If that's the case, I'll give you a hand."
"Better stand back," the other cautioned him. "I don't need any help—this is my line." The man's fatigue had fallen from him; of a sudden he had become surprisingly alert and forceful. He stole forward, making as little noise as possible, and Phillips followed at his back. They came to a pause within arm's-length of the tent flaps, which they noted were securely tied.
"Hello inside!" The owner spoke suddenly and with his free hand he jerked at one of the knots.
There came an answering exclamation, a movement; then the flaps were seized and firmly held.
"You can't come in!" cried a voice.