“That’s a good word,” agreed Steve solemnly, leaning to shake Hunt’s hand. The old man’s palm was as dry and scaly as a lizard’s back. “There’s a heap o’ folks yere that need religion. I understand that derned Andy McCann’s got back.”
The gibe was obvious. Joe grinned with appreciation.
“Yep,” he said. “And he hasn’t got any more to show for his summer’s work than you have.”
“Him!” snarled Steve. “Of course he ain’t. That dumb-head wouldn’t find gold in the mint. No, sir! Never did find any——”
“I thought he did make a ten-strike once, but that the slide twenty years ago knocked his claim into a cocked-hat?”
“What? Him? Does he say so?” ejaculated Siebert, his wrinkled, tanned countenance flaming angrily.
“I heard tell,” and Joe chuckled.
“He’s a plumb liar. He didn’t find any such thing. If there was any such discovery made in them days, it was me that done it. Youbetcha! But him! Huh! Anyway, it’s all buried deeper ’n the Pit—take it from me,” and, grumbling, Steve Siebert rode on.
“Believe me, Willie,” said Hurley, “there’s a case for you. Try to get those two together.”
“These two old men are enemies?” asked Hunt quietly.