He folded the paper and returned to his room to make preparation to return to his ranch. The buzz of the telephone called him to the receiver. The voice of Cullison reached him.
“That you, Mac. I’ll be right up. No, don’t come down. I’d rather see you alone.”
The owner of the Circle C came right to business. “I’ve made a raise, Mac, and while I’ve got it I’m going to skin off what’s coming to you.”
He had taken a big roll of bills from his pocket, and was counting off what he had lost to his friend. The latter noticed that it all seemed to be in twenties.
“Twelve hundred. That squares us, Mac.”
The Scotchman was vaguely uneasy without a definite reason for his anxiety. Only last night Cullison had told him not a single bank in town would advance him a dollar. Now he had money in plenty. Where had he got it?
“No hurry at all, Luck. Pay when you’re good and ready.”
“That’s now.”
“Because I’ll only put it in the Cattlemen’s National. It’s yours if you need it.”
“I’ll let you know if I do,” his friend nodded.