He pointed to a man seated on the ground, leaning against a tree, with one of his sleeves burned entirely away. The arm was scorched. But with his other hand the man was calmly holding a cigarette.
The Mexican cook looked at him and then nodded briefly.
"He's your brother, isn't he?"
Another careless nod.
"Then you ask him what became of the Chinks!"
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Dick wanted to know.
"Tried it—won't answer. I think his brother can make him talk."
This proved to be correct. The cook bent over his brother and made a few rapid motions with his fingers. The seated man muttered something. Again the cook's fingers moved. This time his brother answered more at length, and the cook walked in the direction of a small shed, motioning to the others to follow. Nort and Mr. Hawkins trailed along behind. When they reached the shack the cook pointed to it.
"In there?" the agent asked doubtfully. It didn't seen large enough to hold more than two men. It had probably been used to shelter a calf when the place had been run by a farmer.
The Mexican nodded. Hawkins stepped to the small door and jerked it open. A bundled-up mass of humanity almost tumbled into his arms, and when they untangled themselves, there were not two Chinese, but five!