'd got away with the old Cap's
chest."

"I tell you there's a fortune in it!"

"You don't know----"

"And I suppose you do?" snarled Pete.

"I know no sane man ain't going to keep a whole mess of jewels and such,
what you talk about, right in his house. He'd take 'em to a bank at
Amarillo, or somewhere."

"Not that old codger. He'd keep 'em under his own eye. He wouldn't trust
a bank like he would himself. Humph! I know his kind.

"Why," continued Pete, excitedly, "that old feller at Bylittle is
another one just like him. These old-timers dug gold, and made their
piles half a dozen times, and never trusted banks--there warn't no
banks!"

"Not in them days," admitted Ratty. "But there's a plenty now."

"You say yourself he's got the chest."

"Sure! I seen it once or twice. Old Spanish carving and all that. But I
bet there ain't much in it, Pete."

"You'd ought to have heard that doddering old idiot, Lonergan, talk
about it," sniffed Pete. "Then your mouth would have watered. I tell you
that's about all he's been talkin' about the last few months, there at
Bylittle. And I was orderly on his side of the barracks and heard it
all.

"I know that the parson, Mr. Tooley, was goin' to write to this Cap
Rugley. Has, before now, it's likely. Then something will be done about
the treasure----"

"Waugh!" shouted Ratty. "Treasure! You sound like a silly boy with a
dime story book."

The puncher evidently did not believe his friend knew what he was
talking about. Pete glowered at him, too angry to speak for a minute or
two.

Frances began to worm her way back through the brush. She put the
biggest trees between her and the ford of the river. When she knew the
two men could not see or hear her, she ran.

She had heard enough. Her mind was in a turmoil just then. Her first
thought was to get away, and get Molly away. Then she would think this
startling affair out.

CHAPTER XI

FRANCES ACTS

She got away from the Bottom without disturbing Ratty and the man from
Bylittle. Once Molly was loping over the plain again, Frances began to
question her impressions of the dialogue she had overheard.

In the first place, she was sure she had heard the voice of the man,
Pete, before. It was the same drawling voice that had come out of the
darkness asking for food and a bed the evening Pratt Sanderson stopped
at the Bar-T Ranch.

The voice had been cheerful then; it was snarling now; but the tones
were identical