"Ah Sing, will you tell me what happened," she asked, knowing well that
a command would only elicit a stolid "No savvey." Put as a favor, or a
confidence, he might respond.
"Him Digger Dan, no good! He stealem me clo'e. Ketchem. Missa Land
(Rand) an' plenty man come, he lun (run). I ketchem him! Tlee (three)
lobber (robber) come. To-o muchee men. I no can fight! He - "
"They tied him on a horse and drove it down the canyon for us to follow,
while they got away."
"I tell you, he knows more about it than he's telling!"
"I don't think so, sheriff," said Rand, positively. The man turned to
him, suspiciously.
"Me go home, all same Missie Joe?" Hop Sing raised an expressionless
face and glared at the broad belt of the sheriff.
"Well, you can go, but I'm going to keep an eye on you and see that your
apron's hanging in the Halstead's kitchen every day of your heathen
life."
Later that night when Rand started home, strange incantations were going
on in Sing's lean-to. In four china bowls punk was burning, and an old
Chinaman was muttering weird invocations over the clothes of Digger Dan
slowly smouldering in a coal-oil can in the middle of the floor.
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