Donovan flung his half-smoked cigar to the floor and lighted a fresh
one. Waring's attitude irritated him. Officially, Donovan was Waring's
superior. Man to man, the Sonora gunman was Donovan's master, and the
Irishman knew and resented it.

He tried a new tack. "Glad to see you back, Jim." And he rose and stuck
out a sweating hand.

Waring swung the canteen from his shoulder and carefully hung the strap
over Donovan's wrist. "There's your money, Bill. Count it--and give me a
receipt."

Donovan, with the dusty canteen dangling from his arm, looked
exceedingly foolish.

Waring turned to Quigley. "Bill's got a stroke," he said, smiling.
"Quigley, give me a receipt for a thousand dollars."

"Sure!" said Quigley, relieved. The money had been stolen from him.

Waring pulled up a chair and leaned his elbows on the table. Quigley
unscrewed the cap of the canteen. A stream of sand shot across a map.
The assistant started to his feet. Quigley shook the canteen and poured
out a softly clinking pile of gold-pieces. One by one he sorted them
from the sand and counted them.

"One thousand even. Where'd you overtake Vaca and his outfit?"

"Did I?" queried Waring.