No, sir; Westcott isn't after any sheriff. In the
first place he hasn't any evidence. He knows a thing or two, but he
can't prove it; and if we move faster than he does we'll block his
game--see?"
"What do you mean?"
Lacy leaned forward, and hissed his answer into Enright's ear.
"Put Cavendish where he can't get at him. There's no other chance. If
Jim Westcott ever finds that fellow alive our goose is cooked. And
we've got the advantage--we know where the man is."
"And Westcott doesn't?"
"Exactly, but he will know. He'll comb these hills until he finds the
trail--that's Jim Westcott. Come on back inside, both of you, and I'll
tell you my plan. No, there is no use trying to run him down
to-night--a hundred men couldn't do it. What's that, Moore? Go on to
the shaft-house, and let Dan fix you up. No, we won't need any guard.
That fellow will never come back here again to-night. Come on, boys."
The door closed behind them, shutting out the yellow glow, and leaving
the hillside black and lonely. A bucket of rock rattled onto the dump,
and Moore, limping painfully, swearing with every step, clambered up
the dark trail toward the shaft-house.
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