"Said talk bein' private," continued Sandy.
Plimsoll threw a glance at the man who had been posted for lookout and he left with a curious gaze that took in Sandy's guns.
"Sorry I was away from the ranch, time you called," said Sandy, sitting with one leg thrown over the corner of the table. "Hope to be there nex' time. I hear you-all claim to have an interest in Pat Casey's minin' locations, his interest now bein' his daughter's?"
"That any of your business?"
"I aim to make it my business," replied Sandy.
For a moment the two men fought a pitched battle with their eyes. It was a warfare that Sandy Bourke was an expert in. The steel of his glance often saved him the lead in his cartridges. Jim Plimsoll was no fool to wage uneven contest. He fancied he would have the advantage over Sandy later, if the pair really meant to play faro—in his place.
"I grubstaked him for the Hopeful-Dynamite discovery," he said.
"Got any papeh showin' that? Witnessed."
"You know as well as I do that papers ain't often drawn on grubstaking contracts. A man's word is considered good."
"Pat Casey's would have been, I reckon," said Sandy.