“Scared,” said Cole softly. “He’s scared of Len Ayres. I’ve always told yuh that Prentice is a damn yellow pup, Amos. Drinkin’ to hide the yellow. He kept talkin’ to me, just when he starts to drink this evenin’, and he kept wonderin’ why Len came back. I told him to forget it. Damn him, he snivels when he gets drunk. Scared of his shadder.”
“You don’t think he’d do anythin’ foolish, do yuh, Harry?”
“Nothin’ more than get drunk. To-morrow is Sunday, so he can sober up—if he wants to. But he took two quarts with him; so it don’t look so good.”
“I had a run-in with Len,” said Amos. He had imbibed enough to expand a little. “He started in to talk smart to me, but he didn’t get far with it. He’s got it in for both of us, Harry. Let’s have a drink.”
They turned to the bar.
“I was talkin’ to Ben Dillon to-day,” said Cole. “He said that the Wells Fargo people evidently think Len came back here to dig up the money he stole from them.”
“He told me about it,” nodded Amos, filling his glass to the brim. It was not often that he bought a drink. “Said he told them to put their own detective on the job. Harry, I’m of the candid opinion that Ben is about as much of a sheriff as you were.”
“I wasn’t so bad,” laughed Cole.
“No, you were all right, Harry. I’d like to see you in office again.”
“Not me. Oh, I had enough of it. Well, here’s regards.”