And his denial was received with a forced peal of laughter.
“Say, you’re a heap shrewd,” cried Bill, when his laugh had subsided. “I’d say you’re jest about slick. Gee! Wal, I can’t blame you any fer holdin’ your face shut. Ther’s a mint o’ dollars ken drop out of a feller’s mouth through an unnatteral openin’. Ef you’d got busy gassin’, it’s a million dollar bet all the folks around this lay-out ’ud be chasin’ you clear to death. Say, it’s right, though? There’s chunks of it stickin’ right out, fine, yaller, dandy gold. An’ the quartz bank cuttin’ down wider an’ wider?”
But Scipio shook his head. His bewilderment had gone, and in place of it was sad conviction.
“Not yet,” he said. “Not yet. I ain’t seen it, anyway. I sure think there’s gold in plenty on that claim. I know there is,” he added, with unusual force, his pulses beginning to quicken, and a sudden hope stirring. Bill’s accusation was aiding the effect. “But it ain’t on the surface. It sure ain’t.”
He stood wondering, all his washing forgotten in this newly raised hope so subtly stirred by the gambler. Had someone else discovered what he had missed for so long? He hadn’t been near his claim for some days. Had someone––?
“Who says about the gold?” he demanded, with sudden inspiration.
“The folks.”
The gambler passed the point without committing himself.
Scipio shook his head, puzzling. Something must surely have transpired, and yet––
“You got me beat, Bill. You have, sure.” The smile that accompanied his words was good to see. But somehow the gambler found the far horizon of more interest just then.