CHAPTER XXII

ON THE TRAIL

Silent picked himself up slowly and those who looked at him saw that his face was of a peculiar grey color. The gun was still in his hand.

“Too late,” he said briefly, to Nick’s excited suggestion. “Got no ponies. Can’t chase him on foot.”

“We’d better get those broncs quick,” Roy said. “They didn’t go far--just far enough,” he added.

“That gun--” Teddy began.

Silent nodded. “Same kind. I never saw Allen before. He’s a pal of the skunk who--he’s a pal of Greyhound’s. This is a German gun.”

“We’ve seen one like it before,” Roy declared. “Do you mean to say that man--and the others--are German?”

“Not any,” Silent replied. His face gradually resumed its normal coloring. “They got these here weapons from a mail-order concern. They ain’t registered. When you use guns for killin’,” he said in a low voice, “it’s better to get ’em through the mail instead of over a counter.”

“Killin’!” Gus exclaimed. “Did that guy Allen kill somebody?”

“It seems to be a habit,” Silent went on, “for a guy with this kind of a gun to use it on humans. A habit! Well, boys--” he drew a deep breath--“Reckon I’ve finished minin’ for a while. Now let’s get those broncs. I can see one of ’em--yep, the other, too--from here.” He pointed. “Over by that bush. They got together.”

“You mean you want to go after that fellow--after Allen?” Roy asked.

“That’s what. Sorry to leave you, but--”

“You’re not leaving us,” Teddy stated distinctly.

“Huh?” and Silent looked up.

“We’re coming with you. There’s a little matter we have to settle with certain parties--who sport guns like this. Roy, I reckon I’m speaking for you, too?”

“I’ll tell a maverick you are!” Roy exclaimed. “As you said some time back, Silent, there are some things more important than finding gold! Now let’s see.”

Roy, having made the decision, immediately made plans for carrying it out. Although the others, with the exception of Teddy, were older than Roy, somehow it did not seem strange that they looked to him as leader.

“How about this,” Roy went on, speaking quickly. “Some of us have got to stay here. At least one. Bug Eye--”

“I thought so,” Bug Eye broke in, grinning ruefully. “All right, Roy, you’re the boss. Anyhow, that’s the best plan. I’ll do a little mining while you guys are away. Me an’ Gus, we’ll hold the fort here.”

“You got the idea, Bug Eye,” Roy replied. “Come on, Silent, let’s round up those broncs. Then we’ll get back to the tent.”

The horses were easily caught. Bug Eye decided to ride back to camp with them, and see if he could in any way aid their preparations.

One thing they counted on, and that was that Allen would not ride out of that locality. He would join his friends, and the boys had a notion that “Greyhound” was encamped some place near Nugget Camp. It seemed logical to imagine him lying in wait for miners who had made a strike and were carrying the dust or nuggets to a safer place. Thus it was, or so Roy thought, that he had shot down Jerry Decker.

There were several crimes to be laid at the door of this same Greyhound. First, the robbery and slaying of Silent’s brother and father. That in itself was a cold-blooded deed. Why they hadn’t killed Silent as well while he was lying ill on his bed, the Manley boys could only guess, but probably it was that they knew he was in no condition to follow them.

Then the shooting of Jerry Decker. There was little doubt in Roy’s mind, or in Teddy’s either, that the same hand had directed both, if not actually committed the two deeds. Both were equally vicious, done with an entire disregard for human life.

Finally, Allen’s attempt to frame Nick and get from him ten thousand dollars. True, this was markedly different from the other crimes. Allen was not Greyhound. He was, as Roy and Teddy suspected, a member of the gang, and a weak member at that. A swindler rather than a robber. But his use of the German Mauser branded him as being a comrade of Greyhound.

That night of the storm Greyhound had been within their reach, but had escaped, wounded as he was. Gus had told them of a man who had been shot in a barroom fracas, and, by the description, it was Greyhound.

This, then, was how the situation stood. The boys had but slender clues to go by--the gun, the wounded man, the fact that they believed Greyhound to be still in the vicinity. Yet with these clues they determined to search for and _find_ Greyhound and Allen.

By four o’clock they were ready for the start. Each man carried both a revolver and a rifle, with much ammunition. Food, a canteen of water, a blanket and a rubber poncho apiece completed their packs.

Bug Eye stood before the tent as they mounted.

“You fellows are goin’ on a long journey,” he said quietly. “Good luck to you!”

Something besides the usual expression of a wish was in that sentence; something that showed a realization of the dangers of the journey. These men were not starting out on a jaunt. They were on the trail of a desperate criminal.

“So long, Bug Eye,” Roy called. His voice was low, even. “Take care of One Eleven.”

“Have a big nugget ready for you,” the puncher promised. “Well, so long!”

“So long!”

Four riders trotted down the street, past the long line of tents, and out upon the brown turf, heading toward the mountains. Greyhound would not be in the open. The home of bandits was among the hills.

For the first five minutes there was absolute silence. Each was busy with his own thoughts. How would this thing end? Would their party be intact on the return journey or would one of their number bear mute testimony to Greyhound’s shooting ability and cold, calculating character?

It may be that none of these riders actually analyzed the emotion which prompted him to leave Nugget Camp and venture forth in pursuit of one with whom none of them except Silent had any personal concern. Certainly, the idea of telling the authorities and letting properly authorized men take up the chase, was neither appealing nor feasible.

The nearest home of the law was Hawley, a distance of some seventy or eighty miles. True, there was law of a sort at Eagles, and at some of the other smaller towns, but not sufficient to cope with this situation. Thus, whatever was done must be accomplished by citizens imbued with that spirit which protests forcibly at such depredations as were laid to Greyhound.

After those first few, serious moments, when joking was laid aside out of an unconscious respect for Silent and not from any personal sense of fear of the future, the mood of the riders quickly changed.

“Tell you,” Nick declared, “I’m glad we met up with the Monseer Allen! ’Cause why? ’Cause Bug Eye got seven hundred bucks out o’ him an’ he’s still got his flivver.”

“Never thought of that,” Teddy remarked. “That bird was a regular con man, wasn’t he? Took a chance on losing some money to get a lot back. And if it hadn’t been for Silent here, noticing the gun in Nick’s holster, he might have succeeded.”

“Or he could have caused plenty of trouble for me,” Nick mused. “He sure had me comin’ an’ goin’. That was quite a scheme of his. Never heard of it before. Did you, Silent?”

The puncher shook his head.

“Never did. It’s a new one to me, an’ I thought I knew all about swindling games worked in mining camps. He must have gotten that from some bird from the East--New York or the like.”

“That’s the way it struck me,” Teddy broke in. “It’s an Eastern trick, sure enough. Crooks out here don’t go to that much trouble. If they want to rob a man they do it, and that’s that.”

“He must have planned his little trick for quite a while,” Silent asserted. “Look how he had everything figgered out. Why, even givin’ seven hundred bucks for the flivver was part of the plan. That would go to show he had struck it rich, or he wouldn’t be throwin’ his checks around so regardless.”

“I wonder if he did have a friend who saw me come out of his tent? I’ll bet that part was a bluff. An’ it blamed near worked, too! Wonder where Nat Raymond an’ Jim Casey were all the time we’ve been in camp? I thought sure we’d see ’em.”

“Away over on the other side,” Gus said. “We may see ’em yet.”

“Boy, we’re sure getting into the mountains now!” Teddy looked about him. “And whenever I see mountains I get hungry.”

Roy laughed, the first real laugh he had had since Bug Eye had ridden in with Nick and Allen.

“We’ll go a little farther till we strike a good spot, then camp. There ought to be a brook running through here.”

Darkness was nearly upon the party when it came upon the brook, which was probably the same stream that flowed near Nugget Camp. All dismounted and began preparations for the night.

Silent again assumed his role as cook, although there was little he could display his art with. Beans, bacon and bread, with coffee to drink, made up the meal.

The fire flared cheerily among the dark forest trees and the four gathered close around it, for the night was cool. They were well into the mountains that overlooked Nugget Camp. Somewhere about, they suspected, or hoped, Greyhound had his headquarters. As they sat talking, having finished supper, each rested his hand carelessly on the butt of his revolver.

“Sure is quiet,” Nick remarked. “Hope nothin’ disturbs me to-night.”

“Don’t worry,” Teddy said. “Those fellows aren’t--”

A snapping overhead as of a twig breaking. A swish through the air. The embers of the fire were scattered by a stone which fell among them and bounded out again--a stone with a paper tied to it.