“Have you begun the clean-up yet?”
“Washed out the first panful before I came away,” Clay replied in miners’ phraseology. “Ten thousand dollars for two small back lots. It’s all good pay-dirt, carrying heavy metal.”
“In a way, I’m sorry for Fletcher. He’s had a bad time lately, and, as he has got into low water, I’m afraid this will finish him.”
“He joined the gang. Now he has to take the consequences.”
Clay saw that Miss Dexter was listening with disapproval. He was not averse to having an audience and he had spoken loudly.
“If you saw the people who’d conspired to rob you come to grief through their greediness, what would you do about it, Miss Dexter?” he asked.
“I should try not to gloat over their downfall,” she answered with some asperity.
“Looks better,” Clay agreed. “But when I have the fellows down, it seems prudent to see that they don’t get up again too soon.”
Miss Dexter studied him. Admitting that modesty would have become him better, she did not believe he was boasting at random. There was power in the man, though she imagined he did not often use it well. She disliked his principles, and he frequently repelled her, but sometimes she felt attracted. He had, she thought, a better side than the one he generally showed.
“Does it never pay to be merciful?” she asked.