It was easy enough to say Rimrock was drunk, but it was soon demonstrated that he was not crazy. He was standing in front of the Alamo Saloon, still holding forth against McBain, when a Mexican boy beckoned him off to one side and slipped a note into his hand.
"Please come to my office at once.—M. F."
Rimrock read it over and thrust it into his pocket, then drew it out and read it over again; after which he went up the street.
He stepped into the office with his eyes fixed and sullen and she met him just inside the door.
"I'll accept your apology for your conduct the other day," she said with compelling calm, "and then I want to tell you some news."
"All right," mumbled Rimrock, "I apologize, all right. I was a miserable, pot-licking hound. I'd give my right hand——"
"Yes, yes, that's all right," she broke in hurriedly, "but here's what I want to say. Mr. McBain has been up to Geronimo and got him a copy of that survey of your claims!"
"I knowed it!" burst out Rimrock swinging his fist into his hand, "I saw him get off that train!"
"No, listen!" she said, "you mustn't talk so loud! You mustn't talk at all! Just listen to what I say. I depend on you to save our mine."
"I'll do it!" began Rimrock; but she made a motion for silence and went swiftly on with her tale.