"Heah comes somebody," remarked Chet, listening.
The sound of galloping grew rapidly louder and soon they saw Frisco turn into the street and ride towards them. As they saw him a quiet voice was heard behind them and looking up, they saw Nevada smiling at them. "Get him drunk an' keep him away from Quinn's," he counselled.
They exchanged looks and then Elder stepped out into the street and held up his hand. "Hullo, Frisco!" he cried.
"Where yuh been keeping yuhself foh so long?" asked Chet, affably. "Holed up som'ers?"
"Hullo, fellers," grinned Frisco, drawing rein.
"Everybody have a drink on me," laughed Chet. "Ah'm pow'ful thirsty."
Frisco was escorted inside to the bar, where Chet did the honors, and where such a spirit of hospitality and joviality surrounded him that he forgot how many drinks he had taken. He dug up a handful of gold and silver and spread it out on the bar and waved at the bartender. "Bes' you got—ver' bes'," he grinned. "Me an' my fren's want th' ver' bes'; don't we, fellers? I got money—helluva lot of money—an' thersh more where it came from, ain't that so, boys?"
When the noise had subsided he turned around and levelled an unsteady finger at the bartender. "I never go—back onsh fren', never. An' we're all frensh—ain't we, fellers? Tha's right. I got s'more frensh—good fellesh, an' lots of money cached in sand."
"Ah'll bet yuh have!" cried Chet.
"You allus could find pay-dirt," marvelled Nevada, glancing warningly around him. "Yo're a fine prospector, all right."