“Hartley tells me you are rich,” said Moran, “and I want to be the first one to congratulate you. Ryker and Cutter discovered a rich gold ledge on your ranch, and that’s one of the reasons they wanted to buy you out. Hartley found it, too. That was one of his clews, I suppose.”
The old man’s eyes opened widely and he stared at Hashknife.
“Rich gold ledge?” he queried wonderingly.
“Rich enough to make them do murder to get it,” said Hashknife. “It’s that old prospect you told me about—the one east of Hot Creek, under the big sycamore.”
Conley sank back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling.
“It’s awful rich,” said Hashknife. “Rotten with gold.”
“Rotten with gold,” echoed Conley. “Crooked gold!”
He lifted himself on his elbow and looked at Moran.
“Remember why I got mad at you, Frank? You cut me out of a deal. Mebby it was business; but that’s all past. You had money; you bought several pieces of property and paid a good price on surface showings, you remember?”
“I did, Mose.”