“Fer Victor? Sure?” Jean asked again presently, like a man weighing up a difficult problem.
“Sure. He don’t know you, nor me, at this layout. Ther’s only Victor. I guess I don’t know how he figgered it, he’s that crazy, but it’s Victor he’s layin’ fer, sure. Say, I saw him sling his gun an’ his ‘six.’ An’ his belt was heavy with ammunition. I reckon ther’s jest one thing fer us to do when a crazy man gits around with a gun. It’s time to light out. Wher’s Victor?” And her eyes fell upon the treasure-chest.
“Him an’ me’s changed places. He’s back ther’.” Jean jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the huts in the wood.
Davia was on her feet in an instant and her eyes sparkled angrily.
“What d’ye mean, Jean?”
The man shrugged. But his words came full of anger.
“He didn’t mean marryin’ ye.”
“Well?” The blue eyes fairly blazed.
“The boodle,” with a glance in the direction of the treasure. “He was fer jumpin’ the lot.”
“Hah! An’–?”