Blake fumbled in his pocket and brought forth a piece of soiled paper, which he laid on the bar under the glance of P. Gibbs.
“Keep that!” said Blake, in a husky voice, whose service he compelled with much effort. “And keep your word, too! That's where you'll find her.”
P. Gibbs picked up the paper.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“That woman's name there. It's the name of my widow; the address, too, of a photograph man who will tell you where she is. Get the money to her quick, before the governor and the troops comes down on you to close you up. And don't let her know how it comes about. Pick a man to take it to her,—let him pay his expenses out of it,—a man you can trust, and make him tell her I made it somehow, mining or something, so she'll take it. You know.”
P. Gibbs, who had listened with increasing amazement, opened wide his eyes and drew his revolver. He spoke in a strangely low, repressed voice:
“Stranger, do you mean to say—”
“Yes, that's it,” shrieked Busted Blake, turning toward the crowd of intensely interested onlookers. “And I call on all you here to witness and to hold him to his word. That's no mere bluff he says in his notice there, and I'm the sneaking hound that informed. My widow is entitled to $5,000. I did it in Topeka, and for proof, see this newspaper.”
P. Gibbs fired a shot from his revolver through the newspaper that Blake pulled from his shirt. Then the saloon-keeper brought his weapon on a level with Blake's face.
“It's good your boots is on!” said P. Gibbs, ironically.