Westcott was startled.
“What has he gone out there for?” he demanded.
“How ’n hell do I know,” was the reply. “When we goin’ t’ land ’im?”
“Shut up!” Westcott almost screamed the words in the intensity of his nervous pain. “You can’t touch Gard, you blasted donkey,” he added; “he’s made himself solid with the law. He’s pardoned all right.”
“Pardoned!” Broome’s jaw dropped. “Did he bring away enough fer that in them two bags?” he gasped.
Westcott made no reply and the cow-puncher turned to his fellows.
“Now wha’ d’ye think o’ that?” he roared, “You know this here Gard, Jim. He’s that dod-gasted sawney that butted in when you was teachin’ old Joe Papago the things he most needed to know that night up to the ‘Happy Family.’”
“I guess I know ’im all right, damn ’im,” snarled the one addressed. “He done me out ’n a good thing that time. I stood to win—”
“Done ye! Call that doin’ ye?” Broome snarled. “He done me out ’n more ’n he did you. Thousands o’ dollars he’s robbed me of.”
“Aw, pull ’er in easy Broome,” interrupted one of the others, coming close. “You never had a thousand in yer life.”