“Probably, for a time,” said Power.
Such prompt agreement was unexpected; but MacGonigal passed it without comment.
“Nit—fer good. They lost the main vein a year last Christmas, an’ the treatin’ of ounce ore has been a bluff whiles they s’arched high an’ low beyond the fault. No, Derry, Bison is busted. Me for Denver tomorrow, an’ any fellar kin hev this store at a vallyation, wid a good rake-off, too—dang it!”
Power was smoking placidly, and the gloomy prophecy of his friend did not appear to disturb him. He even affected to ignore the sigh with which MacGonigal turned away after gazing at him with an expression akin to dismay; for the stout man had the constitutional dislike of his kind to change, and the store had yielded a steady income since the inception of Bison.
“Say, Mac,” said Power after a long pause, “if you were to dig deep down into your pants, how much could you ante up?”
“Eight thousand dollars, ef I kep’ a grubstake,” came the instant response.
“And what is the mill worth?”
“It cost the best part of a hundred an’ fifty thousand.”
“I asked you what it is worth.”
“What it’ll fetch.”