* * * * *
Three men sat in the office of the Ortez Mines, smoking and saying little. Donovan, the manager; the paymaster, Quigley; and the assistant manager, a young American fresh from the East. Waring's name was mentioned. Three days ago he had ridden south after the bandits. He might return. He might not.
"I'd like to see him ride in," said Donovan, turning to the paymaster.
"And you hate him at that," said Quigley.
"I don't say so. But if he was paymaster here, he'd put the fear of God into some of those greasers."
Quigley flushed. "You didn't hire me to chase greasers, Donovan. I'm no gunman."
"No," said Donovan slowly. "I had you sized up."
"Oh, cut out that stuff!" said the assistant manager, smiling. "That won't balance the pay-roll."
"No. But I'm going to cut down expenses." And Donovan eyed Quigley. "Jim Waring is too dam' high and mighty to suit me. Every time he tackles a job he is the big boss till it's done. If he comes back, all right. If he don't—we'll charge it up to profit and loss. But his name goes off the pay-roll to-day."
Quigley grinned. He knew that Donovan was afraid of Waring. Waring was the one man in Donovan's employ that he could not bully. Moreover, the big Irishman hated to pay Waring's price, which was stiff.