“Say, don’t it beat hell?” demanded a burly prospector as they came up, pointing back at the wall of the store where the group was clustering like a swarm of bees.
“Don’t what?” inquired Brand, with only partial interest.
“Why, that,” cried the man, still pointing. “Ther’ it is, all writ up ther’. It’s in Minky’s writin’, too. They’re sendin’ out a stage, Wednesday. Git a peek at it.”
But Brand and his companion did not wait for his final suggestion. They, too, had already joined the cluster, and stood craning on the outskirts of it. Yes, there it was, well chalked out in Minky’s bold capitals––an invitation to all his customers to trade all the gold they chose to part with to him at the usual rates, or to ship direct to the bank at Spawn City by a stage that was to leave Suffering Creek at eight o’clock on Wednesday morning, its safe delivery insured, at special rates, by the storekeeper himself.
It was the most astounding notice, under the circumstances, ever seen on Suffering Creek, and as the citizens read it excitement surged to a tremendous pitch.
The man called Van expressed something of the thought in every mind as he turned to Brand, who happened to be at his side.
“Gee!” he cried, with ironical levity. “Old Minky’s plum ‘bug.’ He’s waited to ‘unload’ till James’ gang has got the camp held up three miles out. Wal, I ain’t shippin’. Guess I’ll trade my dust at a discount. It’s a sight easier carryin’ United States currency.”
“But he’s guaranteein’ delivery at the bank,” protested Brand.
“That’s what it sez, sure,” observed White doubtfully.
“It beats me,” said the burly miner perplexedly, again drawn to the notice by the apparent recklessness of its purport. “It beats me sure,” he reiterated. Then, after a thoughtful pause, he went back to his original statement as something that expressed the limit of his understanding. “It sure do beat hell.”