Gary grinned relentingly.
“I came over to see how much of that outfit was faked,” he said. “I’m not the buyer, but I have full authority to act for Pat Connolly. The deal was made rather—er—impulsively, and it is unfortunate that the buyer was unable to get over and see the place before closing the deal. Waddell has gone East, I hear. But you swore that things were as represented in the deal.”
Monty Girard gave him one searching look from under the brim of his dusty, gray Stetson range hat. He looked down, absently reaching out a booted foot to shake a front wheel of his Ford.
“What I swore to was straight goods, all right. I figured that if Mr. Connolly was satisfied with the deal as it stood, it was no put-in of mine. I don’t know of a thing that was misrepresented. Not if a man knows this country and knows what to expect.”
“Now we’re coming to the point, I think.” Gary felt oddly that here was a man who would understand his position and perhaps sympathize with the task he had set himself to accomplish.
Monty Girard hesitated, looking at him inquiringly before he glanced up and down the street.
“Say, mister——”
“Marshall. Pardon me. Gary Marshall’s my name.”
“Well, Mr. Marshall, it’s like this. I’m just in off a hundred-and-forty-mile drive—and it shore is hot from here to Indian. If you don’t mind helpin’ me hunt a cool spot, we’ll have a near beer or something and talk this thing over.”
Over their near beer Gary found the man he had intended to lick even more disarming. Monty Girard kept looking at him with covert intentness.