“So I should judge. Luck gave you his check, did he?”
Bolt belonged to the political party opposed to Cullison. He had been backed by Cass Fendrick, a sheepman in feud with the cattle interests and in particular with the Circle C outfit. But he could not go back on his word. He and Maloney called together on the district attorney. An hour later Dick returned to the jail.
“It’s all right, kid,” he told Curly. “You can shake off the dust of Saguache from your hoofs till court meets in September.”
To Flandrau the news seemed too good for the truth. Less than twenty-four hours ago he had been waiting for the end of the road with a rope around his neck. Now he was free to slip a saddle on his pony Keno and gallop off as soon as he pleased. How such a change had been brought about he did not yet understand.
While he and Maloney were sitting opposite each other at the New Orleans Hash House waiting for a big steak with onions he asked questions.
“I don’t savvy Cullison’s play. Whyfor is he digging up two thousand for me? How does he know I won’t cut my stick for Mexico?”
“How do I know it?”
Maloney helped himself to the oyster crackers to pass the time. “Sure I do.”
“How?”