Chapter XVII: 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!