Now with the last detail worked out to his satisfaction he had abandoned himself to a contemplation of the good time which he intended Beacon Glory should yield him. And for all his pale eyes gave no sign, the mind behind them was full of smiling anticipation. He was thinking of the burden of gold on the pack-saddle, and of the balance of credit at Victor Burns’ bank which he knew to be lying there in his name. He was thinking of the wine to be bought at Max Lepende’s “Speedway”; of the orgy he intended to buy there. He was contemplating the glitter of the place and the seductive charm of the women with whom he would dance. Then there was the great game with its never-failing lure, and the thought of this last was bound up with the vision of a young girl, beautiful as a dream, with flaming hair, and eyes whose colour seemed to change with her every mood, now violet, now blue, and sometimes almost sea-green. He had only seen her once, but memory had never let go of the vision. This time he was determined his memories of her should be more intimate, whatever the price to be paid.
He abruptly bestirred himself and a sound escaped him that was like a laugh. But his harsh face and baffling eyes gave no sign. He turned and fastened his cabin door behind him. Then he moved across to the ponies patiently awaiting his pleasure.
He passed round them quickly, feeling the cinche of both. The pack was secure, but his own saddle required tightening up. He raised the legadero of the saddle and pulled mercilessly on the knotted strap. Then he kicked the grass-fed belly of the docile creature to make the tightening closer. Finally, he dropped the legadero to its full length and prepared to mount.
As he did so a blaze of sun shone out from behind the summer cloud-bank and the man looked up with something like a start. For a second he gazed without blinking and his brows depressed as though the sight of the sun offended him. Then he glanced away, and followed its beam where it threw his own shadow absurdly fore-shortened on the ground. In a moment he had raised his foot to the stirrup and swung himself clumsily into the saddle, and, snatching up the rawhide quirt hanging on the horn in front of him, he slashed viciously and needlessly at both horses.
The Occidental Exchange was empty of all customers. It was in the middle of the afternoon and the time just before the mild rush which usually came about closing-time. The place was a relic of the earliest days of Beacon Glory, and, unlike most institutions of its kind, it had remained un-rebuilt as the city grew. But the fact was, Victor Burns had realised the unstable qualities of the first boom, and been content to await developments. So the place, although substantial enough, was small and of no visible consequence for all it was the city’s principal banking house.
Burns was at the counter, which completely cut off all approach to the premises behind. It was well-gridded with substantial iron of a mesh that would have puzzled any gun-man to negotiate. It was a grid which had been designed out of wide experience, for bank hold-ups had been a somewhat favoured pastime in the city’s history.
The banker was talking to his principal teller, a man who looked almost too young for his position, but what he lacked in years he made up in physique. He was a youthful athlete, virile and smilingly self-confident.
“What’s she paid in this morning?” he asked, in the quiet fashion of simple business interest.