Sanders answered at first in monosyllables, but presently he found himself telling the story of his failure to enlist Horace Graham in the Jackpot property as a backer.
The cattleman began to rumple his hair, just as he had done years ago in moments of excitement.
"Wish I'd known, boy. I've been acquainted with Horace Graham ever since he ran a hardware store on Larimer Street, and that's 'most thirty years ago. I'd 'a' gone with you to see him. Maybe I can see him now."
"You can't change the facts, Mr. West. When he knew I was a convict he threw the whole thing overboard."
The voice of a page in the lobby rose in sing-song. "Mister Sa-a-anders.
Mis-ter Sa-a-a-anders."
Dave stepped to the railing and called down. "I'm Mr. Sanders. Who wants me?"
A man near the desk waved a paper and shouted: "Hello, Dave! News for you, son. I'll come up." The speaker was Crawford.
He shook hands with Dave and with West while he ejaculated his news in jets. "I got it, son. Got it right here. Came back with the Governor this mo'nin'. Called together Pardon Board. Here 't is. Clean bill of health, son. Resolutions of regret for miscarriage of justice. Big story front page's afternoon's papers."
Dave smiled sardonically. "You're just a few hours late, Mr. Crawford.
Graham turned us down cold this morning because I'm a penitentiary bird."
"He did?" Crawford began to boil inside. "Well, he can go right plumb to
Yuma. Anybody so small as that—"