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"That's good," replied Charley, laying his hammer aside, "I've been telling 'em so for days. It's coming everywhere; all the old camps are opening up, but Keno will beat them all." "Yes, that's right," assented the Widow absently, and as she bustled away to begin her unpacking, Death Valley looked at Heine and leered.
"He's dead now," he concluded, but Wiley caught his eye and shook his head disapprovingly. "Not between friends," he said. "Ain't we drunk here together? Well, tell me the truth now where is he? And listen here, Charley; I'll tell you something first that will make it all right with the Colonel. All he has to do is to come back to Keno and I'll give him his share in the mine.
He wants to know where th' cards are stacked an' why he can't holler 'Keno, an' I'm goin' to find out if I can. Yu can go to Patagonia if yu wants to, but yu go alone as far as I am concerned." "Well, it's better if yu don't go with us," replied Hopalong, taking it for granted that Red would accompany him. "Yu can prospect this end of th' game an' we'll be takin' care of th' other.
In the days of gold when ten thousand men, the choice spirits of two hemispheres, had tramped down this same deserted street the house of Colonel Huff, the discoverer of the Paymaster, had been the social center of Keno.
With the countless remedies which her lore embraced, the almost despairing Miss Doc attempted to allay the rising fever. She made little drinks, she studied all the bottles in her case of simples with unremitting attention. Keno, the always-faithful, was sent to every house in camp, seeking for anything and everything that might be called a medicine. It was all of no avail.
Still wondering, he retraced his steps along the edge of the stream, back to the spot where he had left Keno. Imagine his dismay and consternation when he found the tie-rope broken and the pony -gone! Keno had disappeared! Had he grown restive and wandered away, or had he been stolen by some lawless prowler among the hills?
The larder was neglected; the money contributed at "church" had gone at once, to score against a bill at the store, as large as the cabin itself, and only the labors of Keno, chopping brush for fuel, kept the home supplied even with a fire. Jim had been born beneath the weight of some star too slow to move along.
There was a look in her eyes, a brooding glow of resentment when he spoke of his father and hers; and, while he spoke from the heart, she drooped her dark lashes and was silent beyond her wont. He gave her much but she gave him little and the reason she was sorry to leave Keno was the parting with six suffering cats.
He could pile up fresh glories every minute by bowling the little pilgrim on his back and walking on his chest to lap his ear. This he proceeded to do, in his clumsy way of being friendly, with a regularity only possible to an enthusiast. And every time he did it anew, either Keno or Jim or a visitor would shy something at him and call him names.
"Do the joints feel sore and pinched like a pool-room?" he said. "Right!" "Does your tongue feel rare and high-priced like a porterhouse steak at a summer resort?" "It do!" "Do you feel a spasmodic fluttering in the concertina?" "Yes!" "Have you a sort of nervous hesitation in your hunger and does everything you eat taste like an impossible sandwich?" "Keno!"
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