“I ain’t askin’ you to risk it,” growled the other. “All I want o’ you ’s a grub-stake, an’ I’ll divvy fair.”
“I should advise you to.” The quiet voice was full of meaning.
“I will, fer fair. Will you do it?”
“I’ll think about it”; Westcott spoke in an ordinary tone. “There may be a fair prospecting chance in it,” he continued. “I’ll see you again. I wouldn’t do any talking if I were you,” he added.
Broome regarded him with sullen scorn.
“Think I’m a damned tenderfoot to go shootin’ off my mouth?” he demanded.
The lawyer made no reply as he rode away, while Broome went back into the shade. Wing Chang, darting around a corner of the fodder-sheds, to make sure which way he turned, came face to face with Sandy Larch, walking in the direction of the horse-corrals, his surprised eyes following Westcott’s vanishing figure.
“Mistlee Westclott,” said Chang, noting the foreman’s interest. “Him an’ Bloome have long talkee-talkee out there, allee samee heap chin-chin.”
“So do you, you heap heathen,” replied the foreman. “What you doin’ down here?”
The Chinaman grinned, full of friendliness.