“Please don’t scowl at me that way,” I pleaded, humbly. “I was afraid you might drop something that would queer the whole proposition. You are looking over your shoulder as if you expected damnation to jump on to your back!”
“Damnation is getting ready to jump on to our backs,” growled the old man. “One of ’em has got here. He came in on the stage to-night.”
“Which one?”
“The scalawag with the flashy clothes.”
I had looked for pretty quick action, but “Peacock” Pratt had got away sooner than I expected he would. He had been free with his money, I concluded.
I got down-stairs early the next morning, the judge tagging at my heels. But we were not ahead of Mr. Pratt. I didn’t have to hunt for him. He stood out like Jeff Dawlin’s “Peruvian cockatoo” would have shown up in a flock of crows. He followed us into the diningroom, and sat down at the same table and scowled at me with ugly fire in his little eyes above their pouches of flesh. Then he leaned across the table. We three were alone when the White Ghost had frisked away after our breakfasts.
“I’m here,” said he.
“Glad to see you,” said I.
“You’re a dog-eyed liar! You didn’t expect to see me. You thought you had the three of us canned till you could put something across here. It cost me a hundred dollars to grease the lock of that calaboose—and at that I couldn’t bring out the other two. But they’re coming! You needn’t worry any about that part, you punk-faced Piute!”
He dove a pudgy hand down into the breast pocket of his vest. He got his wallet out and banged it down on the table. It was a big wallet and it was well stuffed. Judge Kingsley gulped when he saw it and his hands worked like claws.