Copper Streak Trail | Page 6

old son-of-a-gun!" Jim roared. "You
crafty, wily, cunnin' old fox! I'm for you! Of all the holy shows, you've
made Bill and me the worst--'specially me. 'There, there!' you says,
consolin' me up like I was a kid with a cracked jug. 'There, there! Never
mind--I'll give you one!' Deah, oh, deah! I'll never be able to keep this
still--never in the world. I'm bound to tell it on myself!" He wiped tears
from his eyes and waved his hand helplessly. "Take the ranch, stranger.
She's yours. I wouldn't touch you if you was solid gold and charges
prepaid."
"Oh, don't make a stranger of me!" begged Pete. "You was callin' me
by the name of Johnson half an hour ago. Forgot yourself, likely."
"Did I?" said Jim indifferently. "No odds. You've got my number,
anyway. And I thought we was so devilish sly!"
"Well, boys, thank you for the dinner and all; but I'd best be jogging.
Got to catch that train."
Knitting his brows reflectively he turned a questioning eye upon his
hosts. But Shorty Bill took the words from his mouth.

"I'm like Jim: I've got a-plenty," he said. "But there's a repeating rifle in
the shack, if you don't want to risk us. You can leave it at Silverbell for
us if you want to--at the saloon. And we can ride off the other way, so
you'll be sure."
"Maybe that'll be best--considerin'," said Pete. "I'll leave the gun."
"See here, Johnson," said Jim stiffly. "We've thrown 'em down, fair and
square. I think you might trust us."
Pete scratched his head in some perplexity.
"I think maybe I might if it was only myself to think of. But I'm
representing another man's interest too. I ain't takin' no chances."
"Yes--I noticed you was one of them prudent guys," murmured Jim.
Pete ignored the interruption.
"So, not rubbin' it in or anything, we'd best use Bill's plan. You lads
hike off back the way I come, and I'll take your rifle and drag it. So
long! Had a good time with you."
"Adios!" said Bill, swinging into the saddle.
"Hold on, Bill! Give Johnson back his money," said Jim.
"Oh, you keep it. You won it fair. I didn't go to the finish."
"Look here--what do you think I am? You take this money, or I'll be
sore as a boil. There! So long, old hand! Be good!" He spurred after
Bill.
Mr. Johnson brought the repeater from the dugout and saddled old
Midnight. As he pulled the cinches tight, he gazed regretfully at his late
companions, sky-lined as they topped a rise.
"There!" said Mr. Johnson with conviction. "There goes a couple of
right nice boys!"

CHAPTER II
The immemorial traditions of Old Spain, backed by the counsel of a
brazen sun, made a last stand against the inexorable centuries: Tucson
was at siesta; noonday lull was drowsy in the corridors of the
Merchants and Miners Bank. Green shades along the south guarded the
cool and quiet spaciousness of the Merchants and Miners, flooded with
clear white light from the northern windows. In the lobby a single
client, leaning on the sill at the note-teller's window, meekly awaited
the convenience of the office force.
The Castilian influence had reduced the office force, at this ebb hour of
business, to a spruce, shirt-sleeved young man, green-vizored as to his
eyes, seated at a mid-office desk, quite engrossed with mysterious
clerical matters.
The office force had glanced up at Mr. Johnson's first entrance, but
only to resume its work at once. Such industry is not the custom;
among the assets of any bank, courtesy is the most indispensable item.
Mr. Johnson was not unversed in the ways of urbanity; the purposed
and palpable incivility was not wasted upon him; nor yet the expression
conveyed by the back of the indefatigable clerical person--a humped,
reluctant, and rebellious back. If ever a back steeled itself to carry out a
distasteful task according to instructions, this was that back. Mr. Pete
Johnson sighed in sympathy.
The minutes droned by. A clock, of hitherto unassuming habit, became
clamorous; it echoed along the dreaming corridors. Mr. Johnson sighed
again.
The stone sill upon which he leaned reflected from its polished surface
a face carved to patience; but if the patient face had noted its own
reflection it might have remarked--and adjusted--eyebrows not so
patient, flattened to a level; and a slight quiver in the tip of a predatory
nose. The pen squeaked across glazed paper. Mr. Johnson took from his
pocket a long, thin cigar and a box of safety matches.
The match crackled, startling in the silence; the clerical person turned

in his chair and directed at the prospective customer a stare so baleful
that the cigar was forgotten. The flame nipped Johnson's thumb;