“I haven't got any use for that money. You needn't talk to me about it.”
“Got no h'use!—are you a reech man? Got you' private car waitin' for you out in d' sagebrush? Sol' a mine lately?”
“I don't know why it strikes you so funny. It's no concern of mine if a man puts his money in the ground and goes off and leaves it.”
“Goes off and die! There was one man live here by himself—he die, they say, 'with his boots on.' He, I think, mus' be that man belong to this money. What an old stiff want with two hondre' thirteen dolla'? That money goin' into a live man's clothes.” Bonny slapped his chappereros, and the dust flew.
“I've no objection to its going into your clothes,” said the old man.
“You thing I ain' particular, me? Well, eef the party underground was my frien', and I knew his fam'ly, and was sure the money was belong to him—I'd do differend—perhaps. Mais,—it is going—going—gone! You won' go snac'?”
The old man smiled and looked steadily away.
“Blas' me to h—l! but you aire the firs' man ever I strike that jib at the sight of col' coin. She don' frighten me!”
Bonny always swore when he felt embarrassed.
“Well, sar! Look here! You fin' you'self so blame indifferend—s'pose you so indifferend not to say nothing 'bout this, when my swamper fellah git in. I don' wish to go snac' wis him. I don' feel oblige'. See?”