on the squar. We reckon, takin' Mr. Jackson's word,--and thar
ain't no man's word ez is better nor Jackson's,--that there's nigh
on to two millions in that vault, not to speak of a little speshil
deposit o' York's, ez we learn from that accommodatin' friend, Mr.
Jackson. We propose to share it with ye, on ekil terms--us five--
countin' Jackson, a square man. In course, we takes the risk o'
packin' it away to-night comfortable. Ez your friends, Jack, we
allow this yer little arrangement to be a deuced sight easier for
you than playin' Sandy Morton on a riglar salary, with the chance
o' the real Sandy poppin' in upon ye any night.

Oakkurst. It's a lie. Sandy is dead.

Pritchard. In course, in course; that is your little game! But we
kalkilated, Jack, even on that, on yer bein' rambunktious and
contrary; and so we went ter Red Gulch, and found Sandy. Ye know I
take a kind o' interest in Sandy: he's the second husband of my
wife, the woman you run away with, pard. But thar's nothin' mean
about me! eh, boys?

Silky. No! he's the forgivingest kind of a man, is Pritchard.

Soapy. That's so, Silky.

Pritchard. And, thinkin' ye might be dubious, we filled Sandy
about full o' rye whiskey, and brought him along; and one of our
pards is preambulatin' the streets with him, ready to bring him on
call.

Oakhurst. It's a lie, Pritchard,--a cowardly lie!