Bernritter took another look through the window. The Dutchman, whistling blithely, had left the chuck-shanty. Every once in a while he would turn around to wave his cap and throw a kiss to the plump-faced Frieda, who stood in the door. Bernritter watched until Schnitzenhauser reached his horse, untied the animal from the post, and climbed into the saddle. Frieda, by that time, had vanished from the door. “There he goes,” muttered Bernritter. “Jacobs, we must plan to get the Dutchman suspected! That will carry suspicions away from us--at least, until the redskins help us make our big clean-up. _Then_ we’ll pull out with all the gold our horses can carry.” “A good plan,” returned Jacobs, casting a wary, guilty glance around the office. “But how is it to be done?” “Listen,” said Bernritter, leaning close to his confederate and sinking his voice to a whisper. With their heads together, the two scoundrels plotted together for several minutes; then, hearing a heavy step on the walk outside the door, they drew apart suddenly. The door opened, and a tall, thin man with a gray mustache, booted, spurred, and covered with the dust of a long ride, pushed into the office. “How are ye, lads?” cried the newcomer heartily, dropping into a chair. “Just in from Phœnix, and just sent my horse to the corral. How’s everything been going at the mine since I left?” “All right, McGowan,” answered Bernritter. “Jacobs just came to report that he has a five-pound bar from the cyanid clean-up.” “Well, for Heaven’s sake, Jacobs, take care of it,” said McGowan. “I’ll try to, sir,” smiled Jacobs, masking as well as he could the evil in his heart. He left immediately. “What luck in Phœnix, McGowan?” asked the super, with great show of interest. “No luck at all, at all,” grumbled McGowan. “Buffalo Bill won’t help us. He says it’s a job for the sheriff, and that he has other fish to fry.” Although secretly delighted, Bernritter’s face contrived to express disappointment. “Did you go to the sheriff?” he asked. “Fiend take the sheriff!” growled McGowan. “Hasn’t he been out here and tried? What did he accomplish? Not a thing! The sheriff’s no good. If he attempts----” The door was abruptly hurled open, and Jacobs showed himself. He looked wild and excited. “The bullion!” he gasped; “the bar----” He could hardly talk, and gripped at the edge of the super’s desk to hold himself upright. Bernritter, apparently astounded, rose to his feet. McGowan leaped at Jacobs and grabbed him by the shoulder. “What’s the matter?” demanded the super. “Speak out!” cried McGowan. “This ain’t a time to hang fire. What’s the matter with the bullion?” “It’s gone!” groaned Jacobs, dropping down in a chair beside the desk. The superintendent and the cyanid expert were playing a game and playing it well. “Gone!” shouted McGowan. “You don’t mean to tell me that some more of my good bullion has been lifted?”