"Right," Farwell agreed. "Cultus man come at night. Dark. Black. No see um." He made a footprint in the earth, pointed at it, and then to Simon, and waved a hand at the horizon generally. "You find trail, follow, catch um. Hey, can you do that, Simon? And I'll bet," he added to Keeler, "the infernal old blockhead doesn't understand a word I've said."
But Simon's reply indicated not only comprehension, but a tolerable acquaintance with modern business methods. Said he:
"How moch you give?"
Keeler grinned. "I think he gets you," he commented.
"I guess he does," Farwell admitted. "How much you want?"
"Hundred dolla'!" Simon answered promptly.
"Like blazes!" snapped Farwell. "You blasted, copper-hided old Shylock, I'll give you five!"
Simon held out his hand. The gesture was unmistakable.
"And they say an Indian doesn't know enough to vote!" said Farwell. He laid a five-dollar bill in the smoky palm. "Now get busy and earn it."
Simon inspected the ground carefully. Finally he took a course straight away from the dam.