The proposition was received in absolute silence. Even Beasley had no sneering comment. The Kid's eyes were widely watching Buck's dark face. Slaney had removed his pipe, and, for the moment, his own troubles were forgotten under a sudden thrill of hope. Curly Saunders sat up as though about to speak, but no words came. Abe Allinson, Ike, and Blue Grass Pete contented themselves with staring their astonishment at the Padre's munificence. Finally Slaney hawked and spat.
"Seems to me," he said, in his quiet, drawling voice, "the Padre sold his farm to help us out."
"By Gee! that's so," exclaimed Curly, thumping a fist into the palm of his other hand.
The brightening eyes lit with hope. The whole atmosphere of the place seemed to have lost something of its depression.
Ike shook his head.
"I'm gettin' out. But say, the Padre's a bully feller."
Abe nodded.
"Ike's right. Slaney an' me's gettin' out, too. Devil's Hill's a cursed blank."
"Me, too," broke in the Kid. "But say, wot about poolin' our cents for whisky?" he went on, his young mind still intent upon the contemplated orgie.
It was Buck who helped the wavering men to their decision. He understood them. He understood their needs. The ethics of the proposition did not trouble him. These men had reached a point where they needed a support such as only the fiery spirits their stomachs craved could give them. The Padre's help would come afterward. At the moment, after the long weeks of disappointment, they needed something to lift them, even if it was only momentarily. He reached round to his hip-pocket and pulled out two single-dollar bills and laid them on the dusty ground in front of him.
"Ante up, boys," he said cheerfully. "Empty your dips. The Kid's right. An' to-morrow you can sure choose what you're going to do." Then he turned to the Kid. "My plug Cæsar's outside. Guess you best take him. He'll make the journey in two hours. An' you'll need to bustle him some, because ther's a kind o' storm gettin' around right smart. Eh?" He turned and glanced sharply at Beasley. "You got a dollar?"
"It's fer whisky," leered the ex-Churchman, as he laid the dirty paper on the top of Buck's.
In two minutes the pooling was completed and the Kid prepared to set out. Eight dollars was all the meeting could muster--eight dollars collected in small silver, which represented every cent these men possessed in the world. Buck knew this. At least he could answer for everybody except perhaps Beasley Melford. That wily individual he believed was capable of anything. He was sure that he was capable of accepting anything from anybody, while yet being in a position to more than help himself.