Len smiled crookedly.
“Most folks talk about me to somebody else,” he said.
“I’ve talked about yuh to other folks,” said Hashknife seriously. “The whole danged trouble is the fact that they all feel too much alike about yuh, Ayres. Even those who say they like yuh a lot, admit that you got away to a mighty bad start in this country.”
“Even if that’s fact,” said Len grimly, “I don’t see where it’s any of yore damn business, Hartley. What do you care what people say about me? I can run my business.”
“I don’t blame yuh, Ayres. But listen to this, and you’ll know why this is my business: I’m here for the Wells Fargo. There, my cards are on the table. Mebby I’m a fool to tell you, but I’m takin’ a chance. The sheriff doesn’t know what I’m here for.”
“Wells Fargo, eh?” said Len softly. “So they’re doggin’ my trail, waitin’ for me to dig up that money so they can send me back to the rockpile.”
“They’re still curious about the ten thousand they lost.”
“Did they think you’d recover it for them, Hartley?”
“They’re not that foolish, Ayres.”
“So yo’re a detective, eh?”