Joe Price’s eyelids did not even flicker.
“Any idear what you got?” he asked.
“Not whatsoever,” replied Rathburn coolly; “but the smallest I saw on top of the package was a fifty.”
Price nodded. “You got plenty,” he said.
Rathburn scowled. He had expected some kind of an outbreak––at least a remonstrance from his old friend. He glanced about uneasily and then glared defiance at Price.
“It had to come, Joe,” he asserted. “There wasn’t any way out of it. What’s more, I killed that greased pard of Eagen’s, Gomez.”
“How so?” queried Price.
“Well, I’ll tell you, Joe, but I don’t expect it to go any further. He said something about Laura Mallory an’ a man named Doane, an’ I didn’t like it. I slapped him. Then he went for a knife he had in his hat.”
The old man nodded again. “I see,” he said simply. “You shot him. Not a bad riddance. How did you come to rob the bank, Rathburn?”
Rathburn’s gaze again shifted uneasily. Then he rose with a burning look at Price, walked up and down the slanting length of the cabin, and halted before the old miner.