"The ghosts'll be out this night, I'm thinkin', Mr. Dale," he observed slily. "I've been all over the town, an' here's the only stovepipe that's smokin' t'night. Not mine—I thought mebby yuh might ast me t' eat wit' yuh, an' so I cooked nawthin' fer m'self."
Bill nodded and got another cup and plate. "I thought you went to-day," he said.
"Me? Wit' the stock I've bought an' the stock I've helt befoor, I've a right t' stay wit' my investment."
Bill studied him. "So it's you has been holding out on Parowan!" He laughed shortly not quite pleased. "Well, you'd better fork over, Tommy. I'll buy your stock. You know, don't you, that the Company's dissolved—there ain't no more Parowan Consolidated. What's left of the mine belongs to Bill Dale. Right where it began, it finishes. How much have you got?" Almost mechanically he reached for his fountain pen. The thought struck him that now, at last, he might not be able to buy Tommy out for any decent price. He might not have money enough. As poor as when he had followed his burros into Goldfield was Bill. But he had his mine; he had his self-respect.
"I'm not sellin' Parowan stock," said Tommy stiffly. "When I seen you was buyin', I bought from them that come in the s'loon an' talkin'. If they's no Company left, I can thank Gawd fer that. An' we'll own the mine, the two of us. Fer I have no wish t' sell, Mr. Dale. Phwat's good enough fer you that found it, sh'd be good enough fer me. I'm keepin' my share. An' I'm thinkin' we'll find the ore, Mr. Dale, spite o' the experts that says it's gone. 'Tis not gone s' far but we can find it—you an' me worrkin' t'gether—though phwat yer plan is I dunno——"
Bill gulped. His eyes shone wet between his lashes, though he tried to laugh.
"You bought—because I bought. Tommy, you're the biggest damn fool in Nevada. You ought to be shot."
"Yiss," said Tommy, and blinked at him. "But not fer quittin' a friend, Mr. Dale. The durrty houn's that came an' fed from yer hand, an' when yuh had no more for them, they streaked it outa town an' left yuh holdin' the sack——"
"Aw, shut up!" Bill's tone was gruff. "This may not be O'Hara cooking, but—fill your plate. I'll do my killing in the morning."
"Yuh will not—Bill." And Tommy pulled up a box, threw his hat into a corner and snickered happily over his supper.