Pete's jaw sagged; his eye expressed foggy bewilderment.
"Money? What money? I thought they got it all when they arrested you?"
"Oh, don't be a gloomy ass! The money I left with Old Man Taylor; the money you got down here for preliminary expenses on the mine."
"Mine?" echoed Pete blankly. "What mine?"
"Old stuff!" Stanley laughed aloud. "Go to it, old-timer! You can't faze me. When you get good and ready to ring off, let me know."
"Well, then," said Pete, "I will. Here we go, fresh. And you may not be just the best-pleased with my plan at first, son. I'm not going to bail you out."
"What the hell!" said Stan. "Why not?"
"I've thought it all out," said Pete, "and I've talked it over with the sheriff. He's agreed. You have to meet the action of the Grand Jury, anyhow; you couldn't leave the county; and you're better off in jail while I go back to New York to rustle money."
"Oh—you're going, are you?"
"To-night. You couldn't leave the county even if you were out on bond.
The sheriff's a square man; he'll treat you right; you'll have a chance
to get shut of that insomnia, and right here's the safest place in Pima
County for you. I want a letter to that cousin of yours in Abingdon."