Cy’s gaze was withdrawn from the moving pen of the teller. “Not on your life.”
Burns raised his eyebrows.
“That’s taking a chance,” he demurred. “Aren’t you scared folks’ll jump in on you?”
The man made a sound like a laugh. But his face was unmoving.
“Not a little bit,” he said roughly. “I guess ther’ ain’t a guy in Beacon with the guts to get out to the creek I got staked. If he’d the guts he couldn’t make it. An’ if he made it he’d forgit wakin’ when the daylight come around. No, sir. I ain’t registered, an’ don’t figger to. I ain’t handin’ a map of my strike to any cursed official. I ain’t handin’ the story to a deaf mute. I got my patch, an’ I’ll keep it. I nigh sweated blood to locate it. Register an’ haf the world would get right on my back. I’ll take all the chances, an’ God help the son of a mule who gets within a mile of it. What’s the tally?”
The teller read out the figures in a tone of wonderment his youth could not conceal.
“Eighty-two thousand dollars and twenty-five cents,” he said, and passed the figures to his chief for verification.
Cy nodded, while the banker examined the paper.
“That’s about my reckoning,” he said. “I’ll be totin’ another bunch along when I’m through with my summer wash. I’ll just draw a dope of ten thousand right away. Here’s the brief.” He passed a cheque across the counter and waited to receive the money.
Burns looked up.