“Yes,” he said, seriously. “That’s the reckoning, sure. I congratulate you. You certainly have a swell claim.”
Cy nodded. “I certainly have,” he agreed shortly.
The teller passed the roll of bills and he and his chief watched their customer bestow it in a hip pocket. As he did so he revealed a heavy gun strapped about his waist, and Victor, at least, realised it was there as no mere ornament. Cy had said, “God help the son of a mule who gets within a mile of it,” and somehow this watching student of human nature realised that “God’s help” would certainly be required in the circumstances. This man was not the sort to stand at trifles.
Cy took his departure without the least ceremony, and it was only the banker’s “So long” that forced common politeness from him. They saw him mount one of the two ponies outside, and they heard the coarse oath with which he urged the weary creature forward. Then came the sound of the heavy slash of a quirt and the horses clattered away.
“A mighty tough proposition,” Burns laughed quietly. “All the gold in that boy’s claim wouldn’t tempt me to try and track him to his hiding-hole. I guess he comes out of the mountains. An’ maybe they’re somewhere across the border—seeing he’s not registered. Well, there it is. Guess it’s no worry of mine. We’re here to collect gold, and I’d say we’ve collected a swell bunch from that boy.”
The teller laughed.
“Guess there’s certainly little else to collect from him, anyway,” he said significantly.