Bennington felt very important. He looked the letter all over again,
and examined the envelope idly. The Spanish Gulch postmark bore date of
the day before.
"That's funny," said Bennington to himself. "I wonder why Mizzou didn't
bring it up with him last night?" Then he remembered the old man's
watery eye and laughed. "I guess I know," he thought.
The next thing was to find the men named in the letter. He did not know
them from Adam. Mizzou saw no difficulty, however, when the matter was
laid before him.
"They're in th' Straight Flush!" he asserted positively.
This was astounding. How should Old Mizzou know that?
"I don't exactly know," the old man explained this discrepancy, "but
they generally is!"
"Don't they ever work?"
"Work's purty slack," crawfished Davidson. "But I tells you I don't
know. We has to find out," and he shuffled away toward the saloon.
Anybody but Bennington would have suspected something. There was the
delayed letter, the supernatural knowledge of Old Mizzou, the absence
of Fay. Even the Easterner might have been puzzled to account for the
crowded condition of the Straight Flush at ten in the morning, if his
attention had not been quite fully occupied in posing before himself as
the man of business.
When Mizzou and his companion entered the room, the hum of talk died,
and every one turned expectantly in the direction of the newcomers.
"Gents," said Old Mizzou, "this is Mr. de Laney, th' new sup'rintendent
of th' Holy Smoke. Mr. de Laney, gents!"
There was a nodding of heads.
Every one looked eagerly expectant. The man behind the bar turned back
his cuffs. De Laney, feeling himself the centre of observation, grew
nervous. He drew from his pocket Bishop's letter, and read out the five
names. "I'd like to see those men," he said.
The men designated came forward. After a moment's conversation, the six
adjourned to the hotel, where paper and ink could be procured.
After their exit a silence fell, and the miners looked at each other
with ludicrous faces.
"An' he never asked us to take a drink!" exclaimed one sorrowfully.
"That settles it. It may not be fer th' good of th' camp, Jim Fay, but
I reckons it ain't much fer th' harm of it. I goes you."
"Me to," "and me," "and me," shouted other voices.
Fay leaped on the bar and spread his arms abroad.
"Speech! Speech!" they cried.
"Gentlemen of the great and glorious West!" he began. "It rejoices me
to observe this spirit animating your bosoms. Trampling down the finer
feelings that you all possess to such an unlimited degree, putting
aside all thought of merely material prosperity, you are now prepared,
at whatever cost, to ally yourselves with that higher poetic justice
which is above barter, above mere expediency, above even the ordinary
this-for-that fairness which often passes as justice among the effete
and unenlightened savages of the East. Gentlemen of the great and
glorious West, I congratulate you!"