"Perhaps she's ill," was the next surmise.
After the etiquette to be followed had been strictly discussed, and a
rigid course of procedure set down, the Scholar got up and knocked at
the door. He received no answer, and so knocked again--knocked several
times, in fact, and then rattled the handle vigorously, but without
result.
"Better open it," said a voice.
And he did so; and after looking inside, announced:
"She's not there."
At this moment Dan came up.
"My ole mar' 's gone," he said; "an' she ain't stampeded, neither, but
was stole. Tote-rope's been untied, an' saddle an' bridle took as well."
There was uncomfortable silence, which the Scholar broke by a low,
long-drawn whistle.
"Boys," said he, "let's look inside the safe."
The three men who held the keys brought them up, the bolts were shot,
and the massive door swung back. There was every man's little sack with
his name on it; but somehow or other the sacks looked limper than of
yore. Each one was eagerly clutched and examined, and many a groan and
not a few curses went up on the still night air as it was found that
every sack save Dan's had been relieved of the more valuable part of its
contents.
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