“José, he said. He claims to know every nook and corner in the range. Has lived in the mountains for many years; keeps goats and bees, and shoots a mountain lion occasionally, earning the bounty as well as getting the skin.”
“Shoots,” echoed Thurston, somewhat nervously.
“Oh, that was in his younger days mostly, I fancy. Today he is a tottering old man who couldn’t hold a rifle straight if he tried. But he’s well acquainted with the mountains, that’s the main thing. He tells me he has known where Dick Willoughby is hiding since the very day after he broke jail.”
“Then why didn’t he come to me?”
“Because he knew nothing about the reward. But at our very first chance meeting among the hills I very soon made five thousand dollars look mighty good to him. By gad, you should have seen his eyes pop and his hands tremble.”
“It is a fortune for such a man.”
“That’s what got him. He has been supplying Willoughby with goats’ milk, but is paid only two bits a quart. So he grabbed at my bait like a hungry coyote. You have the money ready, I suppose? Treasury bills—that’s what he stipulated for, because he’s too frail to hump a sack of gold around.”
“The money is in that wallet on my desk. You had better carry it.”
Sharkey stepped across the room and shoved a fat leather wallet into the breast pocket of his coat.
“So frail, is he?” Thurston went on, musingly. “Well, I needn’t take a gun.”