Ore City scowled. Couldn’t he be diplomatic for once—the stubborn old burro’—and act glad even if he wasn’t? Why didn’t he at least step up like a man and say howdy to the woman he had lured from a good home? Where was he raised, anyhow?—drug up in the brush, most like, in Missoury.
Dill looked about inquiringly.
“Ah-h! Mr. Griswold.” He strode across the floor. “How are you?”
Ore City’s hand flew to its heart, figuratively speaking, and clutched it. No man ever called another “Mister” in that tone unless he had something he wanted. And no man ever answered “tolable” with Uncle Bill’s serenity unless he knew he had something the other fellow wanted.
Had he really got hold of something on his prospecting trip this summer? Had he sold? Was he selling? Did this account for Dill’s presence and not the options? The chill at their hearts shot to their feet.
Mr. Dill tapped his pocket and lowered his voice—a futile precaution, for at the moment Ore City could have heard a “thousand legger” walk across the floor. “I’ve got the papers here,” he said, “all ready to be signed up if every thing’s as represented.”
Ore City went limp but not too limp to strain their ears for Uncle Bill’s reply.
“Yes,” he drawled, “you want to take particular care that I ain’t saltin’ you. Give plenty of time to your examination. They’s no great sweat; I wouldn’t sign my name to an application for a fish license that you brought me until I’d had a good lawyer look it over first. As I promised you when you wrote me to open up that ledge, I’ll give you the first shot at it, but don’t try any funny business. I know now what I got, and I don’t need you to help me handle it. I’ve never made it no secret, Wilbur, that I wouldn’t trust you with a red-hot stove.”
“I don’t see why you should talk to me like this,” Dill declared in an injured tone. “You can’t point to a single thing I’ve done.”
“I ain’t got fingers enough,” Uncle Bill said dryly, “and my toes is under cover. It’s prob’ly slipped your mind that I was down in south’rn Oregon when you left between two suns; but tain’t that”—his old eyes gleamed—“it’s what you done last winter—goin’ down there deliberate to jump Bruce Burt’s claim.”