“All right. Take me to town tomorrow, and give me three hundred dollars. Good night.”
Again he started for the ladder, and this time they let him go. Dog looked at Ducky, and Ducky looked at Dog. Spud Dugan, who had been standing by, put in an oar.
“You’re going to put this over on him, are you?”
“It’s his own proposition,” said Dog decisively.
“Looks raw to me,” answered Spud. “All I got to say is that money or anything else that’s come by through sharp practice don’t ever do nobody no good. I hope you never find a thing after that kid’s gone.”
“Oh, dry up,” said Dog. “What does a poet want with money, anyhow?”
They got an early start for town, to catch the stage, and made it. Dog and Ducky held brief but effective converse with old man Kellifer at the store, who always had money, and came out of the conference with a roll of bills, which Dog handed to Percival, just as the stage was ready to start. Percival gave brief thanks, ran across to the Ideal Cafe for a moment, then climbed aboard the stage, while Ducky heaved his big bags into the freight compartment. Duke Envers, the driver, cranked the big truck, and the engine burst into a violent coughing. Envers got aboard and started his stage, and Dog and Ducky watched it, until all that was visible was a fine swirl of dust in the far distance.
“Well, that’s that!” said Dog. “He’s gone, and gone for good. Couldn’t call him back if we wanted to. Couldn’t catch him.”
“Well, let’s not worry,” answered Ducky. “All I want to do now is to get back to that creek and find out what we’ve got. How rich do you suppose it is?”
Dog shook his head.