“Now,” said Terry to Denver.
Denver was through the opening in a flash and dropped to the floor below with a thud. Then he leaped away toward the wall out of sight of Terry. Suddenly a loud, nasal voice spoke through one of the front windows:
“What was that, boys?”
Terry caught his breath. He dared not whisper advice to those men at the table for fear his voice might carry to the guard who was apparently leaning at the window outside. But the dealer jerked his head for an instant toward the direction in which Denver had disappeared. Evidently the yegg was silently communicating imperious instructions, for presently the dealer said, in a voice natural enough: “Nothing happened, Lewison. I just moved my chair; that was all, I figure.”
“I dunno,” growled Lewison. “I been waiting for something to happen for so long that I begin to hear things and suspect things where they ain't nothing at all.”
And, still mumbling, his voice passed away.
Terry followed Denver's example, dropping through the opening; but, more cautious, he relaxed his leg muscles, so that he landed in a bunched heap, without sound, and instantly joined Denver on the farther side of the room. Lewison's gaunt outline swept past the window at the same moment.
He found that he had estimated viewpoints accurately enough. From only the right-hand window could Lewison see into the interior of the room and make out his two guards at the table. And it was only by actually leaning through the window that he would be able to see the safe beside which Terry and Denver stood.
“Start!” said Terry, and Denver deftly laid out a little kit and two small packages. With incredible speed he began to make his molding of soft soap around the crack of the safe door. Terry turned his back on his companion and gave his undivided attention to the two at the table.
Their faces were odd studies in suppressed shame and rage. The muscles were taut; their hands shook with the cards.
“You seem kind of glum, boys!” broke in the voice of Lewison at the window.
Terry flattened himself against the wall and jerked up his gun—a warning flash which seemed to be reflected by the glint in the eyes of the red- headed man facing him. The latter turned slowly to the window.
“Oh, we're all right,” he drawled. “Kind of getting wearying, this watch.”
“Mind you,” crackled the uncertain voice of Lewison, “five dollars if you keep on the job till morning. No, six dollars, boys!”
He brought out the last words in the ringing voice of one making a generous sacrifice, and Terry smiled behind his mask. Lewison passed on again. Forcing all his nerve power into the faculty of listening, Terry could tell by the crunching of the sand how the owner of the safe went far from the window and turned again toward it.
“Start talking,” he commanded softly of the men at the table.
“About what?” answered the red-haired man through his teeth. “About what, damn you!”
“Tell a joke,” ordered Terry.
The other scowled down at his hand of cards—and then obeyed.
“Ever hear about how Rooney—”
The voice was hard at the beginning; then, in spite of the levelled gun which covered him, the red-haired man became absorbed in the interest of the tale. He began to labor to win a smile from his companion. That would be something worthwhile—something to tell about afterward; how he made Pat laugh while a pair of bandits stood in a corner with guns on them!
In his heart Terry admired that red-haired man's nerve. The next time Lewison passed the window, he darted out and swiftly went the rounds of the table, relieving each man of his weapon. He returned to his place. Pat had broken into hearty laughter.
“That's it!” cried Lewison, passing the window again. “Laughin' keeps a gent awake. That's the stuff, Red!” A time of silence came, with only the faint noises of Denver at his rapid work.
“Suppose they was to rush the bank, even?” said Lewison on his next trip past the window.
“Who's they?” asked Red, and looked steadily into the mouth of Terry's gun.
“Why, them that wants my money. Money that I slaved and worked for all my life! Oh, I know they's a lot of crooked thieves that would like to lay hands on it. But I'm going to fool 'em, Red. Never lost a cent of money in all my born days, and I ain't going to form the habit this late in life. I got too much to live for!”
And he went on his way muttering.
“Ready!” said Denver.
“Red,” whispered Terry, “how's the money put into the safe?”
The big, red-haired fellow fought him silently with his eyes.
“I dunno!”
“Red,” said Terry swiftly, “you and your friend are a dead weight on us just now. And there's one quick, convenient way of getting rid of you. Talk out, my friend. Tell us how that money is stowed.”
Red flushed, the veins in the center of his forehead swelling under a rush of blood to the head. He was silent.
It was Pat who weakened, shuddering.
“Stowed in canvas sacks, boys. And some paper money.”
The news of the greenbacks was welcome, for a large sum of gold would be an elephant's burden to them in their flight.
