“I’m framing it all up in my mind,” says he, “and in the morning we’ll set up the camera in the hotel window which will give me a full shot at the street, with the bank in the foreground, and then—can you two get horses?”
“I dunno,” says Dirty. “We have got ’em—at times.”
“Maybe a little risky for you two,” says he. “I’ll have two of ’em at the hitch-rack across the street. I won’t have you ride into town, because some one might spot you. I can fake the entrance. You fellows will dress in your range clothes, you understand? At the right time you will come around the corner of the saloon, swing on to your horses, dash across the street, where one of you will go inside, rob the bank and come out, get your horses and dash out of town. I hope the sheriff will get quick action with the posse.”
“My ——!” gasps Dirty. “You’re all through with us, are yuh? You can’t use us any further, mister? What has we done to you that you should wish our demise?”
“You ain’t taking many chances,” says he. “You’ll take ’em so by surprize that they’ll forget everything.”
“Except to shoot,” says I. “Piperock never forgets their guns. No, sir, you’ve got to figure out something easier than that.”
“It’s a chance of a life-time,” says he, sad-like, and then he gets this idea—
“I’ll give you a hundred dollars apiece.”
“When?” asks Dirty.
“After the robbery.”