“Only for an hour or two. I’ll be back. I wouldn’t think of saying good-by—not till we reach Yuma.”
With that the door closed behind him. Blackwell cried out, hurriedly, eagerly. “Mister O’Connor!”
Bucky’s head reappeared. “What! Have you reduced me to the ranks already? I was looking to be a general by the time I got back,” he complained whimsically.
“I—I’ll tell you everything—every last thing. Mr. Cullison—he’s aiming to kill me soon as you’ve gone.”
“I’ve got no time to fool away, Blackwell. I’m hungry. If you mean business get to it. But remember that whatever you say will be used against you.”
“I’ll tell you any dog-goned thing you want to know. You’ve got me beat. I’m plumb wore out—sick. A man can’t stand everything.”
O’Connor came in and closed the door. “Let’s have it, then—the whole story. I want it all: how you came to know about this shipment of money, how you pulled it off, what you have done with it, all the facts from beginning to the end.”
“Lemme sit down, Captain. I’m awful done up. I reckon while I was in the hills I’ve been underfed.”
“Sit down. There’s a good dinner waiting for you at Clune’s when you get through.”
Even then, though he must have known that lies could not avail, the man sprinkled his story with them. The residuum of truth that remained after these had been sifted out was something like this.