Cunningham had trouble in thinking of an answer. He wanted to talk to Maria. He wanted to take her to one side and say innumerable things.
“About the first man,” he said at random, “you ought to get a lawyer to advise you. And keep out of the way of Vladimir and the sheriff until he can tell you what you ought to do.”
Stephan’s face mirrored a resolute despair.
“No. We will not do that. He would ask who we were and why we killed that other man.”
“He might,” agreed Cunningham lightheartedly. He wanted desperately to talk to Maria. “People do that sort of thing around here.”
Stephan looked at his daughter questioningly. She nodded, with shining eyes that evaded Cunningham’s. Stephan tugged at his belt and placed something on the floor before him. He unknotted a string about a coarse cloth bag and poured out upon the floor a shining heap of gold-pieces. But they were not like any gold-pieces Cunningham had ever seen before. They were hammered from nuggets or bars by hand. They were square, about the size of a double-eagle and twice as thick, and still showed the marks of the hammer that had formed them.
“We will give you these,” he said quietly, “if you will get us gats like the one you showed my people today.”
“Gats? Oh ... guns. Pistols.”
Stephan nodded and swept the gold-pieces into a shining array. The sight of them sobered Cunningham abruptly.
“But what will you do with them?” he asked. “How will you use them? What do you want them for?”