Pete Digger had pulled on a pair of pants and pushed his feet into boots when he had heard the car coming. He was a bit embarrassed about coming out and meeting people, but after I persuaded him it was all right, he seemed sheepish about the gun act. It was Alta who saved the day. She acted interested and perfectly natural.
Pete wanted to make up the bed before he had us come in, but Alta said, “Nothing doing,” and we all filed in. The windows were open, and the stove was cold, but I found a pile of twigs and dried bark and started the fire while Pete was apologetically getting into a shirt and coat. That seemed to make a hit with him.
There was one thing about the little shack. It heated up quickly, and the stove roared into a businesslike job. Pete came over and sat down, looked longingly at the fragrant Perfecto handed him by Ashbury, and said, “Nope. That’s rich man’s fodder. I’m a poor guy. My pipe is my friend, and I don’t go back on my friends. See?”
Alta and I had cigarettes. After we were all blowing smoke into a blue cloud which hung heavy over the table and the roaring fire made the place seem even warmer and more cosy than the thermometer would indicate, Pete said, “Okay. What you got on your mind?”
“Pete,” I said, “I’m going to give you a chance to make five hundred dollars.”
“Make what?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
“What’s the catch?” he asked.
I said, “You’ve got to salt a claim.”
“What for?”