Quigley stirred and rose. The assistant got to his feet.
"Just a minute," said Waring, gesturing to them to sit down. "Donovan's got something on his mind. I knew it the minute I came in. I want you fellows to hear it."
Donovan flung his half-smoked cigar to the floor and lighted a fresh one. Waring's attitude irritated him. Officially, Donovan was Waring's superior. Man to man, the Sonora gunman was Donovan's master, and the Irishman knew and resented it.
He tried a new tack. "Glad to see you back, Jim." And he rose and stuck out a sweating hand.
Waring swung the canteen from his shoulder and carefully hung the strap over Donovan's wrist. "There's your money, Bill. Count it—and give me a receipt."
Donovan, with the dusty canteen dangling from his arm, looked exceedingly foolish.
Waring turned to Quigley. "Bill's got a stroke," he said, smiling.
"Quigley, give me a receipt for a thousand dollars."
"Sure!" said Quigley, relieved. The money had been stolen from him.
Waring pulled up a chair and leaned his elbows on the table. Quigley unscrewed the cap of the canteen. A stream of sand shot across a map. The assistant started to his feet. Quigley shook the canteen and poured out a softly clinking pile of gold-pieces. One by one he sorted them from the sand and counted them.
"One thousand even. Where'd you overtake Vaca and his outfit?"