“Bad men, eh?” asked Le Moyne, laughing.
“Wors’ you ever sheen! Gun-shootin’ mind-readers. Yesshir. Oh, you’ll shee.”
He pointed a wavering finger in the direction of the bartender.
“Betcha oddsh. Betcha anythin’—”
Goode waved his arm, as if to encompass everything, and sat down on the bar-rail, where he began snoring.
“Can’t stand much,” said the bartender. “Give him ten drinks of hooch, and he’s plumb gone. Know anythin’ about Hartley and Stevens?”
Le Moyne smiled and his brows lifted slightly.
“You knew the Santa Rita had detectives on the case, didn’t you?”
“Oh, I did hear they was goin’ to. What’ll yuh drink, Chet?”
“Same thing. I wonder where Goode found out so much about those two men?”