“My dad,” she said slowly, “is offering money for your lives.”
Duke thought of the I. O. U. in his pocket. Forty-six thousand dollars. No wonder Silver Sleed was willing to pay well to stop collection on that piece of paper. It would break Sleed to pay that bet; strip him of his unearned wealth.
“I reckon your dad’s got the wrong idea of us,” said Duke slowly. He did not want her to know why Silver Sleed wanted to kill him.
“I’ll get your burro and things,” she said, and slipped out through the back entrance before he could stop her. The Saint lifted his gory head and stared at her as she went past him. He started to get up, but sank back in his chair, muttering softly, wonderingly.
He looked at Duke closely, without a sign of recognition in his eyes.
“How do yuh feel, Saint?” asked Duke.
“How do I feel?” parroted the Saint. “Why do you ask me that? Where am I?”
“Don’t yuh remember, Saint? You’re in Silver Sleed’s home right now.”
“Sleed’s home?” The Saint got slowly out of his chair and looked around, as though an inspection of the four walls would corroborate his statement.
“Sleed’s home?” he repeated, as though to himself and then to Duke. “I don’t understand—I—can’t.”