He led Allie and his horse away a little distance.
“Fetch them packs, Frank,” he called. The mustang followed, and presently Frank came with one of the packs. Fresno slipped the saddle from his horse, and, laying it under a tree, he pulled gun and rifle from their sheaths. The gun he stuck in his belt; the rifle he leaned against a branch.
“Sandy’ll plug Old Miles in jest another minnit,” remarked Fresno.
“What’s this other game?” queried Frank, curiously.
“It’s gold, Frank—gold,” replied Fresno; and in few words he told his comrade about Horn’s buried treasure. But he did not mention the condition under which the girl would reveal its hiding-place. Evidently he had no doubt that he could force her to tell.
“Let’s rustle,” cried Frank, his dark face gleaming. “We want to git out of this country quick.”
“You bet! An’ I wonder when we’ll be fetchin’ up with them railroad camps we heerd about... Camps full of gold an’ whisky an’ wimmen!”
“We’ve enough on our hands now,” replied Frank. “Let’s rustle fer thet—”
A gun-shot interrupted him. Then a hoarse curse rang out—and then two more reports from a different gun.
“Them last was Sandy’s,” observed Fresno, coolly. “An’ of course they landed... Go see if Old Miles hit Sandy.”