The broker extracted a cigarette from his dainty gold case. “That’s more of an order than a threat, isn’t it, sheriff?” he asked coolly.
“You can find that out for yoreself,” retorted Warburton.
Quintell chuckled. “Very well, sheriff. Should the opportunity ever present itself, I most certainly will make the test. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to take up a small business matter with Mr. Huntington here.” He turned toward Lemuel. “And how have you been, Lem? I hear that Billy Gee is at large again. How unfortunate—after you went to all the trouble and danger of capturing him!”
Warburton’s face flamed under the thrust. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it hard over his set teeth. Turning on his heel, he walked out of the kitchen, gripping his six-shooter in a hand that shook with rage.
CHAPTER XVIII—SKULKING SHADOWS
Meanwhile, Billy Gee had reached his horse tethered conveniently near by and struck out across the plains. It was still early evening, the sky thick-strewn with brilliant stars. He rode along for a short distance, then stopped and listened for sounds of pursuit. He waited for some time and, convincing himself that Sheriff Warburton had not believed a night pursuit worth while, set his course for Geerusalem. From the distant camp came the thunder of stamp mills grinding loose the yellow treasure from the clinging pulp. A foraging coyote, miles off, yelped dismally.
As he galloped on, Billy Gee laughed. Again he had outwitted the doughty sheriff of San Buenaventura County. There was a reckless pride in the thought. He felt the spur of hazard over the achievement—an urge to do something rash for the mere pleasure of doing it, to make those denizens of Soapweed Plains sit up and take notice and marvel at his daringness. It was a consuming, impelling fascination.
He gazed up at the stars. It was a “large” night out, he told himself, and he felt fit as a fiddle. Yes, sir, he would ride into Geerusalem and give it the once over, before returning to Blue Mud Spring and the faithful companionship of old Tinnemaha Pete.
Anyway, he reflected complacently, he had arranged it so Tinnemaha would get possession of the bonanza hill. Poor old Tinnemaha, his one friend, had worked hard, slaved for what he had found. And they were partners—partners of the richest ground in the district! In the last two days they had uncovered a pay chute that the desertarian vowed was rich beyond the conception of prospectordom. They would sell the claims outright, fifty-fifty the money, and leave Soapweed Plains forever.
There were a lot of fairer and more congenial climes to which he himself could go. Sheriff Warburton would never let him alone, would never stop until he had tracked him down and headed him for the penitentiary. And yet, he was going straight now, had been going straight ever since that wonderful night in the Huntington hayloft, when Dot had called him a “poor, wounded wild animal.” Funny how he had needed just that one little bit of interest from a girl to make him change. He had promised her and he had made good, thanks to that grand old wheel horse Tinnemaha Pete, and that grandest little mother who stuck to him heroically, though he had blighted her life with heartaches. He had been such a no-account cur these last three years.