Five thousand dollars was a great deal of money to Trimmer.  Ten thousand was far in excess of his real expectations.  But he saw that his power was large.  He was brutally frank.

“Nope, can’t do it, Opal, not even fer a friend,” and he grinned.  “I’ve got you in the door and I’m goin’ to jamb you hard.  Five thousand ain’t enough.”

Things had been going against the gambler for nearly an hour.  He had been acutely alarmed by the presence of Cayuse in the camp.  His mind, like a ferret in a trap, was seeking wildly for a loophole of advantage.  Light came in upon him suddenly, with a thought of Culver, by whom, subconsciously, he was worried.

“How do you mean to handle the half-breed?” he inquired by way of preparing his ground.  “You’ve promised to cough up a name.”

Trimmer scratched his head with the end of his pistol.

“I guess I could tell him I was off—­don’t know the father after all.”

“Sounds like a kid’s excuse,” commented McCoppet.  “Like as not he’d take it out of you.”

The likelihood was so strong that Trimmer visibly paled.

“I’ve got to give him somebody’s name,” he agreed with alacrity.  “Has anyone died around here recent?”

“Yes,” answered McCoppet with ready mendacity.

“Culver, who used to do surveying.”

“Who?” asked Trimmer.  “Don’t know him.”

McCoppet leaned across the table.

“Yes you do.  He stopped you once from stealing—­from picking up a lot of timber land.  Remember?”

Trimmer was interested.  His vindictive attributes were aroused.

“Was that the cuss?  I never seen him.  Do you think Cayuse would know who he was?—­and believe it—­the yarn?”

“Cayuse was once his chain-man.”  McCoppet was tremendously excited, though apparently as cold as ice, as he swiftly thought out the niceties of his own and fate’s arrangements.  “Cayuse’s wife once worked for Mrs. Culver, cooking and washing.”

“Say, anybody’d swaller that,” reflected the lumberman aloud.  “But five thousand dollars ain’t enough.”

“I’ll make it seven thousand five hundred—­that’s an even split,” agreed the gambler.  He thought he foresaw a means whereby he could save this amount from the funds that Bostwick would furnish.  He rose from his seat.  “A thousand down, right now—­the balance when Cayuse is gone, leaving me safe forever.  You to give him the name right now.”

Trimmer stood up, quenched the light on the stub of his cigar, and chewed up the butt with evident enjoyment.

“All right,” he answered.  “Shake.”

Ten minutes later he had found Cayuse, delivered up the name agreed upon, and was busy spending his money acquiring a load of fiery drink.

CHAPTER XIX

VAN AND BETH AND BOSTWICK

Van was far too occupied to retain for long the anger that Culver had aroused in all his being.  Moreover, he had come to camp in a mood of joyousness, youth, and bounding emotions such as nothing could submerge.  The incident with Culver was closed.  As for land-office data, it was far from being indispensable, and Gettysburg’s knife was forgotten.