“I will,” whispered Amos. “All I want is to get out of this mess.”
Ferdinand P. Putney went into the next room. He did not trust the bank, because he knew Amos Weed too well. In a few moments he came back, carrying a thousand dollars in currency, which he counted out to Cloudy McGee.
“I’m banking on your honesty,” said Putney. McGee pocketed the bills.
“No one can ever say I was crooked in business,” he said. “When is this deal to be pulled off?”
“Tomorrow morning at exactly ten o’clock. There hasn’t been a customer in that bank at ten o’clock for months. Am I right, Amos?”
“You’re right,” whined Amos. “Nobody ever comes in that early.”
Cloudy McGee shook hands with them on the deal and left the house, promising Amos Weed to keep his big sombrero out of sight.
“Well,” sighed Amos, “that’s settled. If the sheriff does kill Cloudy McGee, he won’t squeal on us, Putney.”
“He better not,” grinned Putney. “But the deal ain’t all finished, Amos. You go down to the bank and take out every cent of that ten thousand dollars. Nobody is goin’ to wonder if you go in there this time of night, because you often work late.”
“You—you mean I’m to swipe that money, Putney?”