gone to hell—puffed an' bloated, an' rotten with hooch—an' still square as a brick school house!" For a long time he sat silent, staring at the floor.
Brent poured himself another drink: "How much are you shy?" he repeated.
The words roused Camillo Bill from a brown study: "Huh?" he asked.
"I said, how much are you shy of that million?"
"Oh, I don't know yet. I ain't cleaned up the tailin' of the dump. It ain't goin' to be so far off, though. I'll let you know later." He got up and crossed to the door. "So long," he said, and without waiting for Brent's adieu, struck out at a fast walk for Stoell's where he found old Bettles and Swiftwater Bill drinking at the bar with Moosehide Charlie, who was telling of a fresh strike on a nameless creek to the westward.
Camillo Bill motioned the three to a small table, and when they were seated he ordered the drinks: "We got a job to do," he announced, plunging straight into his subject, "An' we got to do it thorough."
"Meanin' which?" asked Bettles.
"Meanin' to kidnap a man, an' hide him out fer a year, an' make him work like hell every minute he ain't sleepin' or eatin'."
"That sounds like a hell of a contrack," opined Swiftwater Bill. "Who's goin' to keep him workin', an' what at, an' what for?"
"For the good of his soul," grinned Camillo,