“That’s the racket!” said the bar-keeper.
Chicken Bill in a small way was a gifted rascal. After profound contemplation of Deadwood Maggie in her obstinacy, he determined to win her with the conveyance of a one-quarter interest in The Flim Flam Murphy. Deadwood Maggie knew nothing of the worthlessness of The Flim Flam Murphy. Chicken Bill would represent it to her as a richer strike than Old Man Granger’s Old Age Mine. He would give her one-quarter. There would be no risk; Deadwood Maggie, when once his wife and getting a good figure for the mine, would make no demur to selling to whatever tenderfoot he might dupe. This plan had merit; at least one must suppose so, for the soul of Deadwood Maggie was visibly softened thereby.
“I must have you, Maggie,” wooed Chicken Bill, when he had put forth the sterling character of The Flim Flam Murphy and expressed himself as determined to bestow on her the one-fourth interest, a conveyance whereof in writing he held then in his hand; “I can’t live without you. When you busted me with that yootensil you made me yours forever. I swear by this gun I pack, I’ll not outlive your refusal to wed me longer than to jest get good an’ drunk an’ put a bullet through my head.”
Who could resist such love and such hyperbole? Deadwood Maggie wept; then she took the deed to the one-fourth interest in The Flim Flam Murphy, kissed Chicken Bill, and said she would drift into his arms as his wife at the end of two months. Chicken Bill objected strenuously to such a recess for his affections, but with the last of it was driven to yield.
There came a time when The Flim Flam Murphy salted to the last degree of salt was as perfect a trap for a tenderfoot as any ever set. And as though luck were seeking Chicken Bill, a probable prey stepped from the stage next day.
Chicken Bill and the stranger were seen in prompt and lengthy conference. Timberline, looking on, grinned in a tolerant way. For two days Chicken Bill and the stranger did nothing but explore the drift, inspect the timbering, and consider specimens taken from The Flim Flam Murphy.
At last the stranger filled ten small canvas sacks with specimens of ore and brought them into camp on a buckboard to be assayed. Chicken Bill was with him; and pleading internal pains that made it impossible to ride upright, our wily one lay back with the bags of specimens while the stranger drove. From time to time the astute Chicken Bill, having advantage of rough places in the canyon’s bed which engaged the faculties of the stranger, emptied some two or three quills of powdered gold into each specimen sack by the ingenius process of forcing the sharpened point of the quill through the web of the canvas, and blowing the treasure in among the ore.
“It’s a cinch!” ruminated Chicken Bill, when he had completed these improvements. Then he refreshed himself from a whiskey flask, said that he felt better, and climbed back beside the stranger on the buckboard’s seat.
There came the assay next day. With that ceremony Chicken Bill had nothing to do, and could only wait. But he owned no misgivings; there would come but one result; the ore would show a richness not to be resisted.
Chicken Bill put in his time preparing Deadwood Maggie for the sale. He told her that not a cent less than sixty thousand dollars would be accepted.