“We shall have to insist on the gun, I’m afraid.”
“Baca,” said Neighbor severely, “do you want me to nonplus you?”
“Why, no,” said Baca after consideration; “I don’t.”
“Be a little ware, then. Don’t bank too much on your militia. Any insurance company would rate you as a bad risk if they suspected you of any designs on my gun.”
“Jones,” said Baca, “you please me. Have it your own way. By all means march out with the honors of war, side arms and flags flying. Only you needn’t march—I’ll take you down in the machine.”
Jones rose and looked at the clock.
“Well, let’s go, then.... One thing more: You send the money for the cattle on to Albuquerque to-morrow, and we will both pass our words that we’ll never, after this day and hour, try to recover the Drake money from you or make any claim to it. Yes, we will, Ducky. Do as I say and save your cow money. You can’t collect a cent from Bennett and Baca, and there’s no use in trying.... All right—he’ll promise if you will, Baca.”
“It’s a go!” said Baca.
“Shake, then!”
A big touring car purred at the door. At Baca’s invitation Ducky drove, with Jones beside him; while the bearded philosopher sat with Baca in the tonneau. During the exchange of views in the house the excitement had kept Drake’s spirits up, but he cooled down now, and showed some natural depression, realizing the extent and hopelessness of his loss. But Jones was in no way abashed.