Black night had descended over the Dead Hope mine and its new neighbor, the Golden Sun. The two new partners of that latest venture had hastily taken their few belongings from the Dead Hope shack when Henry learned from Tom that it would be needed for gold-dust storage that night.
To all appearances the shack, standing dark and still, and the hillside behind it, were wrapped in slumber.
Two dull figures, as quiet as ghosts, slipped along in the gloomiest parts of the shadow, close to brush, hugging the cliff, or slinking under the shack windows.
“Seems like nobody’s around, seems like,” Mort whispered. “Ain’t that sort of funny?”
“There was a guard,” Henry said in his hoarse, but subdued rumble. “He ain’t around—’Cause why? ’Cause Henry attends to everything. He was leaning out the window when I sneaked around the side of the shack first time, spying. Well—there’s his hat.” He kicked the sombrero lying on the ground under the window.
“Blackjack, heh?”
“Naw. Cudgel!”
“Oh.”
“Now the main thing is not to wake up the camp,” Henry said. “Last time we played bandits we come with guns and a gang at our backs. But this time it’s different. ’Cause we are workin’ alone and I mean to see that you don’t get the best of me this time.”
“Seems like you never will get over that idear, seems like,” Mort grunted. “I tell you and tell you—I had the little gal to watch out for and I tried to find you but the others was too close behind me——”