Violet shook her head. “He didn’t tell me anything. But if he made a strike, he must have—I don’t know what you call it—”
“Recorded it?” asked Henry, and she nodded quickly.
“That’s what I meant,” she said. “He must have done that.”
“Unfortunately—no,” said Henry quietly. “I examined the record book, and Ben Todd did not record his location notice—if he ever made one out. My dear lady, I’m afraid that it will go down in history as the Lost Todd mine, along with many more.”
Violet La Verne looked bleakly at Henry.
“Then I don’t get anything for my fifty bucks, eh?”
“The clothes he had on, a pocket-knife, a six-shooter, very old and very battered, a mule—I believe. I’m not sure of the mule—but who is? Oh, yes, about twenty .45 caliber cartridges, somewhat corroded. I believe that covers his assets.”
Violet La Verne got up from the table. “What about that drink?” said Henry.
But Violet La Verne walked away, not even looking back. Mack Greer, the new manager of the place, came over and sat on the edge of the table. Greer was rather handsome, tall, slender.
“What about Ben Todd? I heard he was murdered,” he remarked.