Turning slowly he looked
at the puncher and handed them to him.
"I reckons they's all over this here town," remarked Hopalong.
"They are, and you may never see Texas again."
"So? Well, yu tell yore most particular friends that the job is
worth five thousand, and that it will take so many to do it that when
th' mazuma is divided up it won't buy a meal. There's only one man in
this country tonight that can earn that money, an' that's me," said
the puncher. "An' I don't need it," he added, smiling.
"But you are my prisoner-you are under arrest," enlightened the
sheriff, rolling another cigarette. The sheriff spoke as if asking a
question. Never before had five hundred dollars been so close at hand
and yet so unobtainable. It was like having a check-book but no bank
account.
"I'm shore sorry to treat yu mean," remarked Hopalong, "but I was
paid a month in advance an' I'll have to go back an' earn it."
"You can-if you say that you will return," replied the sheriff
tentatively. The sheriff meant what he said and for the moment had
forgotten that he was powerless and was not the one to make terms.
Hopalong was amazed and for a time his ideas of Mexicans staggered
under the blow. Then he smiled sympathetically as he realized that he
faced a white man.
"Never like to promise nothin'," he replied. "I might get plugged,
or something might happen that wouldn't let me.
Pages:
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107