explosive utterance of astonishment, as if to say it was beyond him to understand why a man with that much cash in hand didn't keep right on going. Which would have been in accord with the ethics of Drumwell, in which the stripling had been thoroughly schooled.
"He's in there countin' it—got it spread all over the table—him and the old woman. I bet you he's got fifty thousand dollars in that pile!"
"Lucky dog," said Simpson. "Did you see a cowboy named Wallace, who works for this outfit, over at Drumwell?"
"Yeah, him and the rest of the gang come in with the boss last night. Stayed over to rest their horses—comin' on out to-day. That was a hell of a good joke they pulled on that tin-horn detective, pinnin' his damn badge to his damn ear."
"Um-m-m," a noncommittal grunt. "Did one of Coburn's men named Waco Johnson come in?"
"Waco? Yeah, I know Waco. He come in last night. Say! You're the feller that beat up Eddie Kane, ain't you?"
"So, Waco arrived?"
"Well, I tell you, kid, you'd better be hittin' the high places out of this damn country! Eddie Kane's got a double-handed gunman standin' around waitin' for you to show your snoot in Drumwell."
"Well, well," said Simpson, apparently about as much interested in the news as he would have been in the most remote gossip of the town.
Coburn was coming out, his money-counting quickly
