"Which calls for a round before we hit the hay," said Brevoort.
The room upstairs was hot and stuffy. Brevoort raised the window, rolled a cigarette and smoked, gazing down on the street, which had become noisier toward midnight. Pete emptied the pitcher and stowed the wet sacks of gold in his saddle-pockets.
"Told you everything was all right," said Brevoort, turning to watch Pete as he placed the saddlebags at the head of the bed.
"All right, so far," concurred Pete.
"Say, pardner, you losin' your nerve? You act so dam' serious. Hell, we ain't dead yet!"
"No, I ain't losin' my nerve. But I'm tellin' you I been plumb scared ever since I seen that picture. I don't feel right, Ed."
"I ain't feelin' so happy myself," muttered Brevoort, turning toward the window.
Pete, sitting on the edge of the bed, noticed that Brevoort's face was tense and unnatural. Presently Brevoort tossed his cigarette out of the window and turned to Pete. "I been thinkin' it out," he began slowly. "That hunch of yours kind of got me goin'. The best thing we kin do is to get out of this town quick. We got to split—no way round that. We're all right so far, but by to-morrow they'll be watchin' every train and every hotel, and doggin' every stranger to see what he's doin'. What you want to do is to take them sacks, wrap 'em up in paper, put ole E. H. Hodges's name on it—he's president of the Stockmen's Security Bank here, and a ole pal of The Spider's—and pack it over to the express company and git a receipt. They'll sure git that money to the bank. And then you want to fan it. If you jest was to walk out of town, no'th, you could catch a train for Alamogordo, mebby, and then git a hoss and work over toward the Organ Range, which is sure open country—and cattle. You can't go back the way we come—and they'll be watchin' the border south."
"Where is that express outfit, anyhow?"
"You know that street where we seen the show? Well, if you keep right on you'll come to the Square and the express company is right on the corner."