“It wouldn’t do a bit of good.”
Mills produced tobacco and papers and rolled a slow cigarette while their horses jogged along. At last: “How much?” he asked.
“Forty-four hundred.”
“You’ve saved a right smart, ain’t you?”
“It’s the bank’s,” Loupel confessed, and Jack puffed deeply and expelled the smoke in a cloud and remarked:
“Well, at a guess, I’d say you were a damned fool.”
“I know it.”
Their horses plodded on, and the dust cloud rose and hovered in the air behind them. For a space neither man spoke at all. Then Loupel bitterly exclaimed: “I’m not whining for my own sake, Jack. If it was me, I’d hop out. I’d take a chance. But Jeanie....”
“Sure,” Jack Mills mildly agreed. “Sure.”
“Damn it, Jack, Jeanie’s proud of me. She’s proud of me.”