Gilbert turned and walked toward the new notice posted by Dorales.
“Just got some news,” said Mackintavers, jerkily. “Abel is goin’ to stay and tell ye bout it. I don’t s’pose ye got any objection if I light out for Magdalena, aiblins, now?”
Coravel Tio was rolling a cigarette, quite unconcernedly. He flashed Sandy a smile.
“Object? Why should we object, señor? By all means, go! And take your friend with you, your friend whose name is Zacariah and not Zebulon. _Vaya con Dios, señor!_”
Mackintavers was plainly in haste to be off. He called to the chauffeur, who came from the shack and joined him. Together the two walked rapidly toward the car wherein was reposing the bogus James Z. Premble.
“Y’ain’t goin’ to let them varmints go?” Mrs. Crump surveyed Coravel Tio with pleading indignation. “After them tryin’——”
Gracefully, Coravel Tio waved his cigarette. “Si, _señora_! Let them go. Let them both go. There are larger things, much larger things, awaiting us.”
“Let them both go, señora. We have larger things ahead.”
Mrs. Crump sniffed in uncomprehending disgust; but she gave tacit assent.
The engine of the car began to whir; the whir became a roaring hum, then a deep vibrant thrumming that lifted through the cañon. The car, with its three men, moved away and leaped into speed.
“Hey!” The voice of Gilbert, who had been reading the new location notice, drifted up to them. “Hey! This guy is jumpin’ our claim! He’s posted notices in the name o’ Mackintavers. What the hell!”
“Come up here, Gilbert,” said Coravel Tio, “and keep quiet. We are to hear some news. Ah, Señor Dorales, have you lunched? We are glad to welcome you.”
Dorales did not reply. He did not move, but upon his lips lingered that thin, shadowy smile that was like the stamp of a cruel jeer. Gilbert heavily came up and rejoined the others.
They stood there at the doorway of the shack—Mrs. Crump, Coravel Tio, Gilbert, and Lewis. Facing them stood Abel Dorales; he seemed to be waiting until the automobile should have gotten away beyond pursuit. Already it was a dot, lessening amid a trail of dust. In the bearing of Abel Dorales was a commanding air, a deep significance, a sneering sense of power. He was in no hurry to explain.