“Why, I—I—he asked me about you,” faltered Hale. “He wanted to know about your account here, and I—I told him you had closed it. He knew you lost twenty-five hundred, and he knew you drew——”
“And you told him I borrowed money, didn’t yuh?”
“I—yes, I told him. He represents the law, and we——”
“That’s all right, Hale. I jist wanted to tell yuh that yore bank won’t never handle the money I stole from the Wells Fargo.”
Old Rance turned on his heel and walked out, followed by Chuckwalla, leaving Hale to stare open-mouthed after them. Out on the sidewalk Chuckwalla turned fiercely on Rance.
“You old fool!” he snorted. “What didja say that for? Tellin’ him yuh stole that money! My God, you’re shore gettin’ childish, Rance.”
But Rance made no defense. He led the way to the courthouse and straight to Merkle’s office. The officers of Red Arrow County had no office boys, no stenographers to bar the way of anybody who wanted to enter their sacred portals.
The Wells Fargo man was in conference with Merkle when Rance and Chuckwalla came in. Merkle took one look at the two old cattlemen and wished he was elsewhere.
“Hyah, lawyer,” growled Rance, ignoring the other man. “Understand yuh been connectin’ me with the robbery of that train. I’m down here to make yuh put up or shut up. You’re tellin’ a lot of things about my business, Merkle. They tell me you’re scared to arrest me, ’cause you’re scared you’ll never git the money back. And that’s right, too. You slam me in jail and I’ll never tell yuh where it is.”
Merkle stared at the old man curiously. The Wells Fargo man seemed to see some humor in the situation, but said nothing.