“Say,” cried the gambler in a tone that thrilled with power, “this is Sunday. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,” he counted the days off on his lean, muscular fingers. “That’s it, sure. Wednesday we send out a ‘stage,’ an’ you’re goin’ to ship your gold-dust on it. You’ll ship it to Spawn City. Meanwhiles you’ll buy up all you feel like. Clean the camp out of ‘dust,’ an’ ship it by that stage.”
The storekeeper stared. For a moment he thought his friend had taken leave of his senses. A scathing refusal hovered on his lips. But the words never matured. He was looking into the man’s burning eyes, and he realized that a big purpose lay behind his words.
“An’,” he inquired, with a smile from which he could not quite shut out the irony, “an’ who’s goin’ to––drive it through?”
“I am.”
The storekeeper jumped and his eyes widened. He started forward. Then he checked himself. He struggled with a sudden emotion.
“You?” he cried in a sharp whisper. “I––I don’t get you.”
The gambler leapt to his feet. He strode down the length of the hut and came back again. He finally paused before his bewildered friend.
“No, o’ course you don’t,” he cried hotly; “course you don’t. Here, how much ‘dust’ ken you ship?”
“Maybe we’d need to ship sixty thousand dollars’ worth. That is, if we rake around among the boys.”
Minky watched his man closely as he spoke. He was still doubting, but he was ready enough to be convinced. He knew it was no use asking too many questions. Wild Bill hated questions. He watched the latter plunge a hand into the inside pocket of his coat and draw out a book. He had no difficulty in recognizing it as the gambler flung it on the table with a force that set the lamp rattling.