“Aww! What a shame!” burst out Anson. “Thet fine, healthy, nervy kid! Clean gone! Daffy! Crazy 'n a bedbug!”
“Shore it's a shame,” protested Wilson. “But it's wuss for us. Lord! if we was hoodooed before, what will we be now? Didn't I tell you, Snake Anson? You was warned. Ask Shady an' Moze--they see what's up.”
“No luck 'll ever come our way ag'in,” predicted Shady, mournfully.
“It beats me, boss, it beats me,” muttered Moze.
“A crazy woman on my hands! If thet ain't the last straw!” broke out Anson, tragically, as he turned away. Ignorant, superstitious, worked upon by things as they seemed, the outlaw imagined himself at last beset by malign forces. When he flung himself down upon one of the packs his big red-haired hands shook. Shady and Moze resembled two other men at the end of their ropes.
Wilson's tense face twitched, and he averted it, as apparently he fought off a paroxysm of some nature. Just then Anson swore a thundering oath.
“Crazy or not, I'll git gold out of thet kid!” he roared.
“But, man, talk sense. Are you gittin' daffy, too? I declare this outfit's been eatin' loco. You can't git gold fer her!” said Wilson, deliberately.
“'Cause we're tracked. We can't make no dickers. Why, in another day or so we'll be dodgin' lead.”
“Tracked! Whar 'd you git thet idee? As soon as this?” queried Anson, lifting his head like a striking snake. His men, likewise, betrayed sudden interest.
“Shore it's no idee. I 'ain't seen any one. But I feel it in my senses. I hear somebody comin'--a step on our trail--all the time--night in particular. Reckon there's a big posse after us.”
“Wal, if I see or hear anythin' I'll knock the girl on the head an' we'll dig out of hyar,” replied Anson, sullenly.
Wilson executed a swift forward motion, violent and passionate, so utterly unlike what might have been looked for from him, that the three outlaws gaped.
“Then you'll shore hev to knock Jim Wilson on the haid first,” he said, in voice as strange as his action.
“Jim! You wouldn't go back on me!” implored Anson, with uplifted hands, in a dignity of pathos.
“I'm losin' my haid, too, an' you shore might as well knock it in, an' you'll hev to before I'll stand you murderin' thet pore little gurl you've drove crazy.”