“Which we sure are,” agreed Sucatash, not to be outdone. “That’s whatever!”
“And here is this minin’ sharp,” said Dave, turning about and reaching for the shrinking Banker. “Come here, Jim, and say howdy, if you ain’t herded with burros so long you’ve forgotten human amenities that a way. Mad’mo’selle wants to talk to you.”
Banker emerged from behind them. He, too, held 118 his hat in hand, an incredibly stained and battered felt atrocity. His seamed face was nut brown under constant exposure to the sun. His garments were faded nondescripts, and on his feet were thick-soled, high-lacing boots. He gave an impression of dry dinginess, like rawhide, and his eyes were mean and shifty. He might have been fifty or he might have been older; one could not tell.
Mademoiselle was uncertain. She hardly knew enough to question this queer specimen, and so she turned to Marian Pettis.
“Miss Pettis, can you explain to him? I can hardly tell him what we wish to know. And, if the mine is found, half of it will be yours, you know.”
“Mine! Lord sakes, I ain’t counting on it. You gotta fat chance to find it. This bird, here, has been searchin’ for it ever since the year one and he ain’t found it. Say, Banker, this is Mad’mo’selle Dalbray. She’s the daughter of that French Pete that was killed——”
“Hey?” said Banker, sharply.
“Ah, you know the yarn. You been huntin’ his mine since Lord knows when. This lady is lookin’ for it and she wants some dope on how to go about findin’ it.”
“An she expects me to tell her?” cried Banker, in a falsetto whine. “Yuh reckon if I knowed where it was I wouldn’t have staked it long ago? I don’t know nothin’ about it.” 119
“Well, you know the Esmeraldas, old Stingin’ Lizard,” growled Sucatash. “You can tell her what to do about gettin’ there.”