“No, I don’t know as ’tis. Nearly always somethin’ doing in little old Epitaph,” answered the public quencher of thirsts, polishing the glass top of the bar with a cloth.
“Playing with the lid off back there, ain’t they?” The sheriff’s nod indicated the distant faro-table.
“That’s right, I guess. Only blue chips go.”
“It’s Wolf Leroy—that Mexican-looking fellow there,” Hawkes explained in a whisper. “A bad man with the gun, they say, too. Well, him and York Neil and Scotty Dailey blew in last night from their mine, up at Saguache. Gave it out he was going to break the bank, Leroy did. Backing that opinion usually comes high, but Leroy is about two thousand to the good, they say.”
“Scotty Dailey? Don’t think I know him.”
“That shorthorn in chaps and a yellow bandanna is the gentleman; him that’s playing the wheel so constant. You don’t miss no world-beater when you don’t know Scotty. He’s Leroy’s Man Friday. Understand they’ve struck it rich. Anyway, they’re hitting high places while the mazuma lasts.”
“I can’t seem to locate their mine. What’s its brand?”
“The Dalriada. Some other guy is in with them; fellow by the name of Hardman, if I recollect; just bought out a livery barn in town here.”
“Queer thing, luck; strikes about as unexpected as lightning. Have another, Del?”
“Don’t care if I do, Val. It always makes me thirsty to see people I like. Anything new up Tucson way?”