So it was throughout the morning. And by noon every soul in the camp had seen or heard of Minky’s contemplated recklessness. The place was wild with excitement, and, instead of setting out for their various claims for the usual day’s work, every man went out to scrape together any “dust” he possessed, and brought it in to trade.
And Minky bought with perfect good-humor, discounting at the recognized tariff, but always with solemn eyes, and a mind still wondering at his overnight interview with Wild Bill. He had obeyed him implicitly, knowing that he was making a liberal profit for himself, whatever the gambler might be risking. All his transactions were guaranteed for him by the small fortune which Bill possessed safely deposited in the Spawn City bank. Well, it was not for him to hesitate.
But his trading was not carried on without comment and questioning. Besides which, there was a heap of rough sarcasm and satire to put up with from his customers. But he put up with it. He could afford to. And to the closest questioning he had always one answer, and no enlightenment could they drag out of him.
“The stage goes, boys,” he told them. “An’ personal, I ain’t scairt a cent’s-worth of James an’ his gang. Though, to see the way you’se fellers are fallin’ over yourselves to make trade with me, I guess I know some folks as is.”
The marvel of the whole thing confounded the public mind. But the selfishness of human nature demanded that advantage should be taken of the situation. If Minky, who recently had jibbed at trading gold, had suddenly eased the market, well, it was “up to him.” It was his “funeral.” The public jumped at the chance of realizing, and so relieving themselves of the cloud of trouble threatening them. James could come along with a whole army of desperadoes, once they had rid themselves of their “dust.” They then would no longer have anything to lose except their lives, and those they were always prepared to risk in anything so enterprising as a little honest gun-play.
It was noon when Wild Bill was stirring. And he listened to the news which greeted him on every hand with a calmly non-committal air. Nor, when he found it necessary to comment, did he hesitate to do so in his usual sharp, decided fashion.
“Minky’s good grit,” he declared on one occasion to a puzzled miner. “I don’t guess ther’s many folks around as ’ud take his chances. I allow Sufferin’ Creek needs to be proud of sech a feller.”
And his attitude promptly set up a new feeling in the camp. Minky’s heroic pose had not struck the people before. But now the full force of it struck home in a manner which suddenly raised him to a great pinnacle of popularity. The storekeeper of Suffering Creek was standing between the camp and possible financial disaster. It was noble. It was splendid. Yes, they had reason to be very thankful to him.
Bill contemplated the notice long and earnestly when his attention was first called to it. And his narrow eyes lit and twinkled as he read down the carefully chalked capitals. Minky had certainly done it well. But then Minky did most things well. He read it down a second time, and then pushed his way into the store. It was some time before he could reach his friend, but finally he got him to himself as he was poring over a big cash-book. The storekeeper looked up. Nor had he any greeting for his visitor. He was still dazed at the gambler’s purpose. And somehow it was the latter who had to speak first.
“You done it good, Minky,” he said amiably.