“I didn’t know as you’d bin one o’ the victims too, Dan,” he remarked.
“Didn’t ye, Tug?” returned Black with a short laugh. “Well, I didn’t say nawthin about it, coz I was after doin’ a leetle detective work on me own, an’ mebbe I’d ’ave got in ahead o’ ye if Woolly Billy here hadn’t a’ been so smart. But I tell ye, Tug, if that there traysure’s the lot we’re thinkin’ it is, there’d ought ter be a five-dollar bill in it what I’ve marked.”
“H’m!” grunted the Deputy, hastily gulping down the last of his tea, and rising to his feet. “But Woolly Billy an’ me and Jim’s a combination pretty hard to git ahead of, I’m thinkin’.”
As the party neared the bluff whereon the tree of the fish-hawk’s nest stood ragged against the sky, the air grew rank with the pungent odour of skunk. Now skunks were too common in the region of Brine’s Rip Mills for that smell, as a rule, to excite any more comment than an occasional disgusted execration when it became too concentrated. But to-day it drew more than passing attention. MacDonald sniffed intently.
“It’s deuced queer,” said he, “but I’ve noticed that there’s always been a smell of skunk round when anybody’s lost anything. Did it ever strike you that way, Tug?”
“Yes, some!” assented the Deputy curtly.
“It’s a skunk, all right, that’s been takin’ our money,” said big Andy, “ef he don’t carry his tail over his back.”
Every one of the party was sniffing the tainted air as if the familiar stench were some rare perfume—all but Jim. He had had an encounter with a skunk, once in his impulsive puppy days, and the memory was too painful to be dwelt upon.
As they climbed the slope, one of the fish-hawks came swooping down from somewhere high in the blue, and began circling on slow wings about the nest.
“That cross old bird doesn’t like visitors,” remarked Woolly Billy.