“It is buried, amigo,” his brother agreed. “Now I suggest that we also bury the treasure, out in the ’Glades, and disappear for a while.”
“That would do but for one thing. We can’t trust our men. If they know where it is buried they will come back and steal it—or you——”
“Yes,” snarled the other suddenly angry again. “Or I—or you! Bury the hatchet! Oh, yes!”
“Our original plan—your plan—is best, after all,” said the other brother. “We will wait until the Seminoles come and pack the treasure in cases when it is divided—then it will be ‘each man for himself!’”
“I will go back to the rimrock and see if there is any sign of the Indians,” said Senor Ortiga, rising. Nicky looked about quickly. He must get back and warn his companions so they could, all three, hide before the Senor arrived.
And as Nicky turned, his blood turned to ice in his veins.
Lying along a low bough, not ten feet from the ground, with its steady, unblinking, bright, beady eyes fixed on him, lay a moccasin, a large specimen of the ’Glades snake family!
Instinctively, and with the impulsiveness that characterized his movement at many close corners in life, Nicky lifted the pistol and fired!
As his finger pressed the trigger he realized that, in the old adage, “the fat was in the fire.”
He had upset all their careful plans!