“What’s ther feller’s name, Buffler?”
“Patrick McGowan.”
“Sounds like er bit o’ th’ brogue.”
“Not much of the brogue about McGowan. He’s Irish, all right, but not so you could notice it. A fine man, take him by and large, Nick, but he ran out the wrong trail when he came to me.”
“What fer sort of a trail was et, Buffler?”
“Going it blind on a hunt for red bullion thieves.”
“Waugh! Sounds kinder good ter me.”
“But it’s sheriff’s work, Nick; plain sleuthing, and nothing in sight for a strong arm. The sheriff gets paid for doing that sort of thing in this county.”
“But reds! From ther way yer mouth went off, Buffler, I opined an Injun er two was tangled up in this hyar bag o’ tricks.”
“McGowan has had three dreams to that effect and stands ready to bet his life that redskins are helping to do him out of his bullion.”