Jimmy, who was industriously polishing the bar and singing the while one
of the more lugubrious and monotonous hymns, looked up with his
customary little chuckle.
"Feeling fine, ain't you?" he said derisively. "Want to start right out
and corral the whole desert, don't you? Think you can travel right over
to San Bernardino yonder? Looks about three miles off, don't he?"
"Me?" said Hanson, expanding his chest. "I feel like I was about
sixteen. Like I was home in Kaintucky, jumping a six-bar fence after a
breakfast of about fifty buckwheat cakes and syrup."
"That's the way it takes them all; but you just wait until about noon,
and you won't feel so gay," warned Jimmy. "What are you doin' to-day,
anyway, hunting more trouble?"
"Not me," cried the other. "I came here to the desert pearl fishing."
"That's a good one." Jimmy's chuckle expanded into a series. "But you
ain't the only one. There's Bob Flick, for instance, as you discovered
last night."
The smile went out of Hanson's eyes, his face set. He ceased to lounge
against the bar and involuntarily straightened himself:
"What about Bob Flick?" he asked.
"Lots about Bob." Jimmy's tone was equable, but he shot Hanson a quick
glance. "He was our faro dealer for a while, but he's interested in
mines now. He's dead sure. Come to think of it, he's a lot of dead
things," he mused; "but don't ever confuse him with a dead one." Delight
at his own wit expressed itself in mirthful chuckles.
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