"Just under ten thousand ounces since last reckoning. That's the last half of last summer's wash-up. There's nigh a thousand tons of dirt to clean still. It's the biggest wash we've had, an' it's growing. When we've cleaned out this gang we won't need to do a thing but shout. There ain't no limit to the old gorge," he added gleefully. "When we've passed the bones of John Kars to the camp dogs, why, we can jest make up our bank roll how we darn please."
"Yes."
The man at the stove emptied and replenished his glass, and sat handling it like one who treasures its contents. But there was a frowning discontent in his eyes.
"We need to pass those bones along quick," he demurred. "We haven't done it yet."
The half-breed at the counter searched the discontented face with speculative eyes.
"You guessin' we can't?"
There was incredulity in his tone.
"I don't guess a thing. We've just—got to." The surly determination was unconvincing.
"An' why not?" The half-breed's eyes were widely questioning. "It don't worry me a thing. We fixed Mowbray all right. He was no blamed sucker. I tell you right here there's no white outfit goin' to dip into my basket, an' get away with it. We'll hammer 'em good and proper. An' if that don't fix 'em, why, I guess there's always the starvation racket. That don't never fail when it's backed by winter north of 'sixty.' Them curs'll get his bones all——"
But the man at the stove was no longer paying attention. He had turned in his chair, and his eyes were on the door. His glass was poised in the act of raising it to his lips. It remained untouched.