"But there's the big land grant yo' people owns over in Ireland."
"It's tied up with entail, whatever that means, and there's no money in it, anyway. My tail in the old country doesn't save me from being galled in the saddle here, and I'm awfully tired."
"Same here, seh. I'm weary some myself. Yo' gun is loaded?"
Jim pawed his revolver. "Yes."
"Take some more," said Crook, and passed over a handful of cartridges to fill Jim's belt. Jim saw that the cripple was armed.
"Why do you talk," says he, "about horses waiting for us, and the need of guns, and father getting killed? What's the trouble, my lad?"
"The trouble is that Ryan has hired that gambling outfit to skin the Dook to-night. There's men standing round to see he don't leave that house alive. Now, look along the street here to the left, across at the Mortuary Hotel. You see old Ryan settin' there?"
"I do."
"He's waiting for his son, the millionaire, young Michael. He's due with his private cyar at ten o'clock. If Michael comes—if he comes, I say—his father reckons to bring him over to call on yo' father here at the 'Sepulchre.' That's why the Dook is bein' skinned, and that's why Ryan's men are watching to see he don't escape alive."
"But what does Ryan want? He's got our breeding cattle, he's taken Holy Cross, my mother's gone—we've nothing left to take."