Henry unslung a small pocket lamp and switched on its beam. Throwing it over the room he gave an exclamation of delight.
“There’s them sacks o’ dust—and some of nuggets, by the feel.”
They lost no time in dragging some of the buckskin pouches from the top of the pile and dropping them out of the window so they could get to the bulkier flour sacks and gunny sacks beneath them. When they had lifted until they were tired, they decided to transfer what they had dropped under the window to the backs of the mules.
“But wait!” admonished Mort. “Seems like we better get at the papers, seems like. Then, if we’re chased, we know we haven’t left that partnership agreement and deed for the kids to find.”
“Wise idea,” agreed Henry. “Take this flash, and put it so’s it can’t be noticed outside. Then I’ll pry up the boards—let’s see—a girl of nine or ten or so would never have tools—and she was excited when you come in, wasn’t she, Mort?”
“Seems like she was, way I remember.”
“Now, the stove was about here—yep, here’s the spots where the heat warped the wooden floor. Now—Mort, where was the little gal standing that night when you come in?”
“Well as I recall—I come in the door, and she was—just about like you are now.”
“Well, that settles it. She had just straightened up, I bet. ’Cause why? Look at that board along the wall. Loose, I’ll bet. See! A kid could get her fingers almost under the edge—enough to lift it—and sure enough! Here they are!”
He wrenched savagely at the long, narrow board, and lifted it enough to get his arm through and fish out some mouldy looking paper.