Happy thought! The wires were laid and all Blackwater joined in with them, in fact it was the universal idea, and even the new barkeeper with whom Wunpost had struck up an acquaintance had promised to do his part. To get Wunpost drunk and then to make him boast, to pique him by professed doubts of his great find; and then when he spilled it, as he had always done before, the wild rush and another great boom! They watched his every move as he put his animals in a corral and stored his packs and saddles; and when, in the evening, he drifted back to The Mint, man after man tried to buy him a drink. But Wunpost was antisocial, he would have none of their whiskey and their canting professions of friendship; only Ben Fellowes, the new barkeeper, was good enough for his society and he joined him in several libations. It was all case goods, very soft and smooth and velvety, and yet in a remarkably short space of time Wunpost was observed to be getting garrulous.
“I’ll tell you, pardner,” he said taking the barkeeper by the arm and speaking very confidently into his ear, “I’ll tell you, it’s this way with me. I’m a Calhoun, see–John C. Calhoun is my name, and I come from the state of Kentucky–and a Kentucky Calhoun never forgets a friend, and he never forgets an enemy. I’m burned out on this town–don’t 100like it–nothing about it–but you, now, you’re different, you never done me any injury. You’re my friend, ain’t that right, you’re my friend!”
The barkeeper reassured him and held his breath while he poured out another drink and then, as Wunpost renewed his protestations, Fellowes thanked him for his present of the nugget.
“What–that?” exclaimed Wunpost brushing the piece of gold aside, “that’s nothing–here, give you a good one!” He drew out a chunk of rock fairly encrusted with gold and forced it roughly upon him. “It’s nothing!” he said, “lots more where that came from. Got system, see–know how to find it. All these water-hole prospectors, they never find nothing–too lazy, won’t get out and hunt. I head for the high places–leap from crag to crag, see, like mountain sheep–come back with my pockets full of gold. These bums are no good–I could take ’em out tonight and lead ’em to my mine and they’d never be able to go back. Rough country ’n all that–no trails, steep as the devil–take ’em out there and lose ’em, every time. Take you out and lose you–now say, you’re my friend, I’ll tell you what I’ll do.”
He stopped with portentous dignity and poured out another drink and the barkeeper frowned a hanger-on away.
“I’ll take you out there,” went on Wunpost, “and show you my mine–show you the place where I get all this gold. You can pick up all you want, and when we get back you give me a thousand dollar bill. That’s all I ask is a thousand dollar 101bill–like to have one to flash on the boys–and then we’ll go to Los and blow the whole pile–by grab, I’m a high-roller, right. I’m a good feller, see, as long as you’re my friend, but don’t tip off this place to old Eells. Have to kill you if you do–he’s bad actor–robbed me twice. What’s matter–ain’t you got the dollar bill?”
“You said a thousand dollars!” spoke up the barkeeper breathlessly.
“Well, thousand dollar bill, then. Ain’t you got it–what’s the matter? Aw, gimme another drink–you’re nothing but a bunch of short sports.”
He shook his head and sighed and as the barkeeper began to sweat he caught the hanger-on’s eye. It was Pisen-face Lynch and he was winking at him fiercely, meanwhile tapping his own pocket significantly.
“I can get it,” ventured the barkeeper but Wunpost ignored him.