He reined in his horse and leaned outward to look more intently. Behind the man, who was mounted, he saw the blurred outlines of pack animals. “De Launay?” he called again.
The figure seemed to grow suddenly nearer and more distinct, descending close upon him.
“It ain’t no Delonny,” chuckled a shrill voice. “It’s me.”
“Huh!” said Dave, with disgust. “Jim Banker, the damned old desert rat!”
“Reckon you ain’t so glad to see me,” wheezed Jim, still chuckling. “Old Jim’s always around, though; always around when there’s gold huntin’ to do. Always around, old Jim is!”
“Well, mosey on and pull your freight,” snarled Dave. “We don’t want you too close around. It’s a free country, but keep to windward and out o’ sight.”
“You don’t like old Jim! Hee, hee! Don’t none of ’em like old Jim! But Jim’s here, a-huntin’—and most of them’s dead that don’t like him. Old Jim don’t die! The other fellers dies!”
“So I hears,” said Dave, with meaning. He said no more, for Banker, without the slightest warning, shot him through the head. 220
The horses plunged as the body dropped to the ground and Jim wheezed and cackled as he held his own beast down.
“Hee, hee! They all of ’em dies, but old Jim don’t die!”