“Oh, no!” cried the husky voice, “not Hen Morgan. He sees you three come a-ridin’ up to Dead Hope mine, with the old gent. He sees how the super’tendent calls some of us miners in and he asks ’em, later, what it’s all about. ’Cause why? ’Cause Hen Morgan knows something.”
“Knows something? About what?” demanded Tom.
“Light down off your ponies an’ I’ll tell you. ’Cause why? ’Cause it takes too much work keepin’ these critters standing still. Light!”
Tom looked at his companions. Cliff nodded and slid from his saddle. Nicky and Tom followed his example. There was no danger, that they could see, and on the ground they had more freedom of movement than while mounted on strange, and possibly unruly mustangs.
“Now,” said Henry Morgan, seating himself on a boulder and rolling a cigarette expertly with his right hand, while three mystified, rather eager youths stood watching him, “now—Hen Morgan said he smelled money on you or around you, and he was right. ’Cause why? Look at it! You didn’t ride out here to look for mining property; you come a-hunting for some news of a certain thing what happened a good while ago!”
“How do you know we did?” Nicky asked sharply.
“From the miners who was called to the office. But they didn’t know anything. Nobody did. Nobody does—but——”
Tom almost sprang forward, so eager was he as the import of Henry’s words flashed through his mind. “Do you? Do you know about—about my sister——”
With maddening deliberateness the man held up a hand for silence, searched for and found a crumpled card of matches, struck one and carefully ignited the end of his cigarette. Then, at last, he nodded.
“Hen Morgan is the only man who does know anything—but he don’t know much.”