“You show him to me, dead, and there’ll be plenty dinero for you, Madeiras.”
“Perhaps so, I go to jail, too.”
“Not a chance. Roddy’s sworn you in. If that idiot resists arrest, blow his head off and the law’ll back you up.”
Tony did not appear to view the prospect with any degree of faith.
“Law no good for Basque,” he stated. “Plenty Basque in jail.”
“Not if I’m for you,” argued Gallup.
“How I know you be for me?”
“I’m for you if you mean business. Why, here”—and Aaron drew from his pocket a buckskin bag, and undoing the draw-string, held the purse out to the Basque—“run your fingers through that! All gold, all twenties. Five hundred. It’s yours if you go through with this.”
Tony sent his fingers deep into the bag. A crafty light came into Gallup’s eyes as the man felt the precious metal. Tony’s face was working strangely. The coroner thought he read greed—success for himself in it.
But the Basque’s fingers were not caressing the gold pieces. They were searching for something more precious than money.