in by his confident tone, and knowing that he was himself a sham desperado, though a genuine thief and highwayman, had been made to feel uneasy while in Bradley's company.
"I wonder what became of them?" continued Mosely, thoughtfully.
As Tom Hadley's special phrase could not come in here appropriately, he forbore to make any remark.
"He thought he would scare me by his fierce talk," said Mosely, who would hardly have spoken so confidently had he known that Bradley was only two miles distant from him at that identical moment. "It takes a good deal to scare a man like me—eh, Tom?"
"I should say so," returned Hadley, but it was noticeable that he spoke rather dubiously, and not with his usual positiveness.
"I'm a hard man to handle," continued Mosely, complacently, relapsing into the style of talk which he most enjoyed. "I'm as bad as they make 'em."
"I should say so," chimed in Tom Hadley; and there was nothing doubtful in his tone now.
Bill Mosely looked at him as if he suspected there was something suspicious under this speech, but Tom Hadley wore his usual look, and his companion dismissed his momentary doubt. "You never saw me afraid of any living man—eh, Tom?"
"I should say so," answered Hadley.
There was something equivocal in this speech, and Bill Mosely looked vexed.
"Can't you say anything but that?" he grumbled. "It looks as if you doubted my statement. No man doubt my word—and lives."
Tom Hadley merely shrugged his shoulders. He was not a man of brilliant intellectual ability or of rare penetration, but there were times when even he was led to suspect that his companion was a humbug. Yet Mosely had greater force of character, and took uncommon pains to retain his ascendency over his more simple-minded companion, and had in the main been successful, though in the matter of the gold-dust he had been obliged to score a defeat.
As Hadley did not see fit to express any doubt of this last statement, Bill Mosely was content to let the matter drop, assuming that he had gained a victory and recovered his ascendency over his echo.
They had met no one for some hours, and did not look for an encounter with anything wearing the semblance of humanity, when all at once Tom Hadley uttered an exclamation.
"What is it, Tom?" asked Mosely.
"Look there!" was the only answer, as Hadley, with outstretched finger, pointed to a Chinaman walking slowly up the hill.
"It's a heathen Chinee!" exclaimed Mosely with animation.
"I should say so," echoed Hadley.
Mosely urged his mustang to greater speed, and soon overtook Ki Sing, for it was Richard Dewey's attendant whom the two adventurers had fallen in with.
CHAPTER IV.
KI SING IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY
Ki Sing turned when he heard the sound of horses' feet, for in that mountain-solitude such a sound was unusual. He was not reassured by the appearance of the two men, whose intention seemed to be to overtake him, and he turned aside from the path with the intention of getting out of the way.
"Stop there, you heathen!" called Bill Mosely in his fiercest tone.
Ki Sing halted, and an expression of uneasiness came over his broad, flat face.
"What are you doing here, you Chinese loafer?"
Ki Sing did not exactly comprehend this speech, but answered mildly, "How do, Melican man?"
"How do?" echoed Bill Mosely, laughing rather boisterously.—"Tom, the heathen wants to know how I do.—Well, heathen, I'm so's to be around, and wouldn't mind chawing up a dozen Chinamen. Where do you live?"
"Up mountain," answered Ki Sing.
"Which way?"
The Chinaman pointed in the right direction.
"What do you do for a living?"
"Wait on Melican man—cookee, washee."
"So you are a servant to a white man, John?"
"Yes, John."
"Don't you call me John, you yellow mummy! I'm not one of your countrymen, I reckon.—What do you say to that, Tom? The fellow's gettin' familiar."
"I should say so," remarked Tom Hadley, with his usual originality.
"What's the name of the Melican man you work for?" continued Mosely, after a slight pause.
"Dickee Dewee," answered Ki Sing, repeating the familiar name applied by Bradley to the invalid. The name seemed still more odd as the Chinaman pronounced it.
"Well, he's got a queer name, that's all I can say," continued Mosely. "What's your name?"
"Ki Sing."
"Ki Sing? How's Mrs. Ki Sing?" asked Mosely, who was disposed, like the cat, to play with his victim before turning and rending him.
"Me got no wifee," said the Chinaman, stolidly.
"Then you're in the market. Do you want to marry?"
"Me no want to mally?"
"So much the worse for the ladies. Well, as to this Dickee, as you call him? What does he do?"
"He sick—lie down on bedee."
"He's sick, is he? What's the matter with him?"
"Fall down and hurt leggee."
"Oh, that was it? What did he do before he hurt himself?"
"Dig gold."
Bill Mosely became more interested. "Did he find much gold?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes, muchee," answered Ki Sing, unsuspiciously.
"Does he keep it with him?"
Bill Mosely betrayed a little too much interest when he asked this question, and the Chinaman, hitherto unsuspicious, became on his guard.
"Why you wantee know?" he asked shrewdly.
"Do you dare give me any of your back talk, you yellow heathen?" exclaimed Mosely, angrily. "Answer my question, or I'll chaw you up in less'n a minute."
"What you ask?" said Ki Sing, innocently.
"You know well enough. Where does this Dickee keep the gold he found before he met with an accident?"
"He no tellee me," answered Ki Sing.
This might be true, so that Mosely did not feel sure that the Chinaman's ignorance was feigned. Still, he resolved to push the inquiry, in the hope of eliciting some information that might be of value, for already a plan had come into his mind which was in accordance with his general character and reputation—that of relieving the invalid of his hoard of gold-dust.
"Where do you think he keeps the gold, John?" he asked mildly.
Ki
