The trapper went into details, leaving out nothing that had the slightest bearing on the peculiar situation. Little Cayuse likewise added his testimony, explaining how he had discovered that the scout and the baron had been lowered into the old shaft. “So far,” applauded the scout, “this little drama has been a two-star performance, with Nomad and Cayuse occupying the center of the stage. Nick, you and Cayuse have done mighty well. By acting on this information you two have collected, we’ll be able to run out this trail of McGowan’s in short order. “Bascomb and the redskins, unless I misread the signs are going to storm the Three-ply camp to-morrow, after the amalgam has been scraped off the mill-plates, and make ’way with it. “I have suspected Bernritter and Jacobs ever since I saw them in the sheriff’s office. What do you think of them for a pair of contemptible, scheming scoundrels? McGowan has all the confidence in the world in Bernritter, and the super has taken advantage of that confidence to rob his employer systematically. “I know, now, just as well as I know I am sitting here, that those rascals contrived to put that bar into the baron’s saddle-bag, solely for the purpose of bringing our Dutch pard under suspicion and sidetracking McGowan’s distrust until the mill clean-up could be stolen and rushed away. “We’ll nip this pretty plot in the bud, but we shall have to go about it carefully. Bascomb and his Indians think the baron and I are holed up in that shaft. We’ll let them continue to think so, and will so mask our movements that they will not know we’re at large until we show ourselves to frustrate their designs on the Three-ply gold. Give me a saddle-blanket, one of you fellows.” Nomad was puzzled by this request, but he immediately loosened his saddle-cinches and drew out the blanket. Then the scout dropped the riata into the shaft once more and let himself down. He was down a short time, when he called out to be drawn to the surface again. He came up with the saddle-blanket secured at the corners, and a heavy weight in it. “What ye got thar, Buffler?” asked the curious trapper. “About thirty pounds of amalgam, at a rough guess,” was the answer. “Amalgam!” cried the startled Nomad. Then the scout explained, and when the truth dawned on the trapper he chuckled mightily. “Et wasn’t er good thing for them varmints ter put ye down thar with thet Three-ply loot,” said he. “Didn’t ther ijuts know better, er was they jest takin’ er chance ye wouldn’t find et?” “They were taking the chance that we couldn’t get out if we did find it,” answered the scout, “and it was Little Cayuse’s work that enabled us to fool them. The baron and I will stow the stuff in our war-bags, and then we’ll ride.” “Whar’ll we ride ter, Buffler?” “To some place near the Three-ply camp.” The amalgam was quickly stowed in the war-bags, Nomad replaced his saddle-blanket, and the little party mounted.