WHEN ZEKE CAME BACK
"The window at the rear!" Frank Allen instantly suggested.
"I get you, Frank!" gasped the relieved Paul.
"Great stuff!" was the energetic way Lanky agreed with the leader.
The sound of many hoofbeats was coming closer, steadily, and what the
boys meant to do must be undertaken without wasting any more precious
seconds.
"Follow me!" With the words the agile and energetic Lanky was already
half-way through the window. This had no sash, time having relieved it
of both glass and frames, leaving only an aperture in the wall.
Frank pushed Paul forward, signifying that it was his intention to be
the last to quit the place, just as all captains of sinking vessels at
sea make sure everybody else has left before they will consent to step
into the last crowded boat that leaves before the foundering occurs.
Once outside, the boys were quick to scurry in among some old junk and
scrambled rocks. This lay but a few feet away from the back of the
tavern, and offered excellent hiding places for them.
Besides, what pleased Lanky considerably, they could doubtless overhear
any talk that came about. Yes, and even catch fleeting glimpses of the
new-comers, if so be they entered the old hotel.
Another minute--less than that, even--and the boys were able to
congratulate themselves over their smartness in leaving in such a
hurry. The ponies came to a halt directly before the door of the former
hostelry. Throwing the lines over the heads of their mounts, cowboy
fashion, so that the animals would remain at a stand under all ordinary
conditions, the riders entered.
Frank and his chums could hear loud and rough voices.
"That was Nash Yesson who spoke then!" whispered Lanky in Paul's ear,
for they were all bunched close together on purpose, and had their ears
doing almost double duty in the endeavor to learn all they could.
"It was Lef Seller he called down, too," observed Frank, with great
caution, for it would invite a ruction little short of a calamity if
those angry men discovered the boys crouching there and listening to
what went on.
"I just glimpsed Lef," Lanky communicated in his softest tone; "and you
ought to see how bad he looks. He's had nothing but hard knocks ever
since he ran up against that Yesson. The tough boys over at Double Z
Ranch must have rubbed it in hard, too."
"He's only getting what he deserves," Paul muttered, half to himself,
thinking of the base duplicity and deceit toward his own father Lef had
been guilty of.
"'Sh! Let's listen for all we're worth, and perhaps we'll pick up some
news," suggested Frank, who disapproved of all this whispering that was
taking place.
He himself had taken several cautious looks, and had learned that
besides Lef Seller and Nash Yesson there were four other persons in the
crowd that had entered the forsaken tavern.
"That queer fish with the body of a runt and the head of a giant seems
to answer to the name of Rick Muddy," Frank told himself. "The name
about fits his crooked body, I'd say. Those other three tough-looking
citizens must hang up their hats at the Double Z when they're at home,
for they've got the make-up of cow-punchers, heavily armed, and out for
business."
One of these men he heard called Malachi and another Zeke, but the
third one's name was never made known.
Nash Yesson was not knuckling down to anybody, it appeared, from the
way he turned from one to another with snarls and hard language.
Continual disappointments while on the way to Rockspur Ranch and
afterwards had roiled him unmercifully, so that, as Lanky afterwards
expressed it in his customary picturesque language "the man was like a
bear with a sore head."
"And as for you, Rick Muddy," the boys could hear Yesson pouring out
his wrath upon the head of the pudgy chap, "even after you'd been given
complete directions you had to go and fizzle the worst kind. Why, those
kids got the better of you and grabbed the second chart after you'd
nearly dug it up! You're a rank failure and ought to be kicked out of
camp for being such a gink."
"I own up they bamboozled me some," grumbled the small man. "But other
dubs livin' in glass houses oughtn't to throw stones."
"What d'you mean by that, you fool?" gritted Yesson threateningly.
"Only that you done the same stuff when you nearly had that first
map," retorted the other, probably relying on the fact that the three
hard-riding cow-punchers were pals of his and would not see him
knocked down by Yesson. "If you'd jumped your claim then we'd be all
fixed right now to walk in on that nugget cache! Ain't that so boys?"
"It sure is," replied the tallest of the wranglers in a voice that
rumbled like the sound of approaching thunder. "But all bets are off,
and we don't want to eat each other up for nothin'. When we grab what
we've got hidden here, we'll be fixed so's to start off fresh again and
locate that Lost Mountain."
"That's the stuff!" chanted the fellow answering to the name of
Malachi. "What Zeke here managed to pick up from that wrinkled old
Indian squaw ought to help us find the cave. And once we get our paws
on the jack, we'll fight anybody to the death who tries to pry it away
from us."
"You said it, Malachi!" retorted Nash Yesson grimly. "I've been
stalkin' that nugget claim too long now to show the white feather to
a dozen pikers who are tryin' to chase me off the trail. We're close
to it right now, and if those other guys come walkin' up to close the
deal, why, here's six little boys ready to say 'hands up, gents!'"
This was all heard by the eagerly listening boys, concealed so close
at hand. Very interesting it all sounded, too; although Frank did not
see that they were really adding to their stock of information, except
that they knew now the number of those who opposed their aims and
to what infamous ends Yesson and his companions were ready to go to
further their schemes.
"Then let's clear out and get busy," suggested Malachi, who seemed to
be an aggressive type of fellow. "Get busy, Rick Muddy, an' hustle that
stock of grub along, to load on your cayuse, you bein' the lightest
built in the whole bunch."
This told the story. It was these men who had visited the deserted
mining camp shortly before Mr. Wallace and his prospecting party
reached Gold Fork. Frank had already discounted this fact. Indeed, he
had reached that decision at the time he first discovered the marks of
hoofs along the upper canyon.
The small man with the big head showed no sign of disobeying orders.
Undoubtedly he knew Malachi's bad qualities, and did not dare rebel.
So the peeping boys in the junk heap among the friendly rocks watched
the men carry forth some packages. These undoubtedly contained their
store of food to carry them over during their stay in that unalluring
vicinity.
When the clatter of hoofs finally announced the men had indeed gone,
every boy from Frank down breathed a sigh of relief and they came out
of hiding.
"A rough crowd, take it from me!" exclaimed Lanky Wallace.
"Are you sure they're all gone?" asked nervous Paul Bird.
Lanky chuckled.
"What do you take me for, Paul--a bonehead?" he asked. "Sure, I counted
'em as they rode off, and there were six in the lot. From the way that
ugly-looking Zeke turned and looked back several times, I kind of
imagined he had some scheme in view that he was half tempted to pull
off."
"Good riddance then to bad rubbish," Paul remarked, showing by his
manner that he had feared there might be a discovery made, when the
results would hardly have been pleasant for the boys from Rockspur
Ranch.
"Lucky for us we hid our stores and took the ponies off to pasture,"
Frank observed, as they re-entered the deserted hotel. "If they'd seen
the bunch it would have been good-bye to our chances for riding back
home. As it is, they've seen nothing to tell them that the Wallace
treasure-hunters are already on the ground and ready to follow their
noses to Josh Kinney's lost claim."
"Why, look here!" burst out Paul just then. "What's this mean?"
He was holding some object up gingerly. It turned out to be a cowboy
hat, once a beautiful Stetson, but now horribly shabby, as though it
must have seen several years' hard usage.
Both Lanky and Frank experienced fresh interest.
"Say, that wasn't on this old three-legged table when we came into this
place!" exclaimed Lanky, frowning, as he took the article in his own
hands, and turned it around.
"I wondered," Frank broke in, "when I noticed that the big,
ugly-looking puncher called Zeke was riding off bare-headed. Still,
I've seen Lige Smith, yes, and Hoptoad Atkins, go off on the range with
bare heads, and the sun scorching hot. But then they both have thick
hair, while Zeke--well, if he wasn't as close to being bald-headed as
any cowboy could be, I'm mistaken."
"I'd say it was a bum go he forgot his hat," ventured Paul.
"Perhaps he didn't!" Lanky told him.
"But here's his old hat, and Frank just said the man rode off
bare-headed! What can you mean by saying that, Lanky?"
"To get you guessing, Paul," chirped the satisfied Lanky. "What I had
in mind was that maybe Zeke left his lid here on purpose."
"Now you're balling me all up again!" complained Paul.
"Didn't you hear me say the man kept looking around as he rode off with
his pals, just as if he had half a notion to turn and come back? Well,
I reckon Zeke's a cute one, and has set up the pins in his alley so he
can knock 'em down with his first roller and make a clean sweep!"
"Do you mean," asked Paul, "that he actually means to come galloping
back here for some reason or other and has left his hat behind so's to
make some sort of excuse for leaving his mates?"
"Listen!"
As Lanky hissed that emphatic word the other boys strained their ears
to catch any sound. Clearly on the gentle breeze that chanced to be
blowing came the unmistakable pounding of a pony's hoofs on the rocks!