"Well," said Apache Kid, lightly, "to a man in your position it would n't matter so much, though the assay was nothing very great."
"No, sir; that's so," said the sheriff. "So you see that it's advisable for a man to get a position in life. Sheriff Carson of Baker City has expressed in glowin' terms his faith in the near future of the valley," he said, like a man reading.
Apache Kid laughed.
"I suppose Sheriff Carson's expression of faith would soon enough get up a syndicate to work it!"
"I would n't just say no," said the sheriff.
There was more of such banter passed, and suggestions as to where the city—Carson City—would be built; but when Apache Kid suggested the stagecoach route the sheriff scoffed.
"Stage-route nothing!" he said. "Railroad you mean, spur-line clear to Carson City."
"The country is sure opening up and developing to lick creation," said Slim; but at that the sheriff frowned. He might banter with his prisoner, but not with his subordinate.
So we saddled up again, the sheriff looking with interest on the heavy gunny-bags that we stowed carefully away again among the blankets on our pack-horse, but making no comment on them. He must have known pretty well what they contained.
Apache Kid's eyes and his met, and something of the look I have already told you of, that came at times, grew on Apache Kid's face, and a sort of reply to it woke in the sheriff's. But, as I say, no word passed on the matter then. Apache Kid had taken care to bring our treasures from the cabin before thinking of aught else.