I hear there's one of Uncle Sam's grayhounds going through
you, and that means that we'll catch him inside of a couple
of hours, maybe. Now, I want you to do something for me.
We've got just $2,200 in the bank, and the law requires
that we have $20,000. I let Ross and Fisher have $18,000
late yesterday afternoon to buy up that Gibson bunch of
cattle. They'll realise $40,000 in less than thirty days on
the transaction, but that won't make my cash on hand look
any prettier to that bank examiner. Now, I can't show him
those notes, for they're just plain notes of hand without
any security in sight, but you know very well that Pink
Ross and Jim Fisher are two of the finest white men God
ever made, and they'll do the square thing. You remember
Jim Fisher--he was the one who shot that faro dealer in El
Paso. I wired Sam Bradshaw's bank to send me $20,000, and
it will get in on the narrow-gauge at 10.35. You can't let
a bank examiner in to count $2,200 and close your doors.
Tom, you hold that examiner. Hold him. Hold him if you have
to rope him and sit on his head. Watch our front window
after the narrow-gauge gets in, and when we've got the cash
inside we'll pull down the shade for a signal. Don't turn
him loose till then. I'm counting on you, Tom.
Your Old Pard,
BOB BUCKLY,
_Prest. Stockmen's National_.
The major began to tear the note into small pieces and throw them
into his waste basket. He gave a satisfied little chuckle as he did
so.
"Confounded old reckless cowpuncher!" he growled, contentedly, "that
pays him some on account for what he tried to do for me in the
sheriff's office twenty years ago."