Mills nodded. “I know. I thought at first you did; but I reckon you wouldn’t play it that low down. Is he—hurt much?”
“Oh, you got him.”
“Yeah,” said Mills. “Well, that’s tough, too. When is it going to happen to me?”
“To-morrow morning.”
“They’re right prompt, ain’t they?”
Loupel gripped the stout timbers to stop the trembling of his hands. There was a terrible and pitiful anxiety in his voice. “Jack!” he whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Have you told?”
Mills turned his head away; he could not bear to look upon this old friend of his. “Why, no,” he said gently. “No, Bud, I ain’t told. Don’t aim to, if that helps any.”
“But the money,” Bud stammered. “The packages of bills. You couldn’t get rid of them. When they find them, they’ll know.”