“Just what is it that you want to do?” demanded Johnny.
“Mebbe I go ask Kent for my job. Mebbe somet’ing happen on the Diamond-Bar. Mebbe that old fool t’ink I go back on you, eh? Then Tony Madeiras use hees nose and hees eyes.”
“Good Lord!” Johnny cried as he banged the table. “You’re elected—unanimously! I’m goin’ to Elk Valley in half an hour. You stay behind. Kent’s still here. Meet him. Let him see that you’ve turned me down. He’ll jump at the chance to hire you on. Miss Molly’ll hate you. Play it out, though. If you think you ought to see me, come to the Reservation. The agent will know where I am.”
Tony’s good nature blossomed again. Intrigue held a peculiar bouquet for the Basque. Danger, adventure—hadn’t his race answered to them for centuries?
Ten minutes later Johnny came downstairs by himself. A drink, and a farewell nod to Whitey, the bartender, and he was off.
Kent saw him go, and followed his progress until the boy was lost in the dust and heat waves dancing about the base of Winnemucca Mountain. Turning back to the hotel office the old man saw Tony. The Basque was pounding upon the desk for the clerk. “How much I owe theese place?” he demanded.
“Not a cent. Your pal paid the bill.”
“Johnny Dice, he’s no pal wit’ me,” the Basque announced angrily. “Remember this: Tony Madeiras pay hees own way.”
He knew that Kent was listening, but he never glanced in the cattleman’s direction. Instead, he stamped into the bar and ordered a drink. There he poured into Whitey’s ear the story of his break with Johnny.
“You t’ink I stay behin’, me? No! I am a Madeiras. I belong up front, you bat my life on that.”