Again came the leader’s dark smile. But he had nothing to add.
Presently the last keg was hoisted into the wagon. The leader of the enterprise sighed.
It was a sigh of pent feeling, the sigh of a man laboring under great stress. Yet it was not wholly an expression of relief. If anything, there was regret in it, regret that work he delighted in was finished.
One of the men was removing his mask, and he watched him. Then, as the face of the man who had been concealed under the car was revealed, he signed to him.
“Get busy on the wagon,” he said.
The man promptly mounted to the driving seat, and gathered up the reins.
“Hit the south trail for the temporary cache,” the leader went on. “Guess we’ll need to ride hard if Fyles is feeling as worried as you fellows—hope.”
The man winked abundantly.
“That’s all right, all right. He’ll need to hop some when we get busy. Ho, boys!” And he chirrupped his horses out of the shallow cutting, and the wagon crushed its way into the smaller bush.
The leader stood for a moment looking after it. Then he turned to the other man, still awaiting orders.