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“So, Paw, how’d we fare?” Damn good. Too good. Weasel knew it already, and in his gut and he was starting to get worried.

“When’re you gonna learn how to valuate a haul? You can’t figure it out on your own?” he replied, winded with excitement. “I’d wager to say the guy and his cronies have been aiming high. They must’ve cleaned out the whole family of some big shot. Look at these jewels! I never seen diamonds like this. And this little revolver? It’s got ivory and mother of pearl in it, with solid gold finish. By ginger, I’m droolin’ all over myself!” He ran his hand across his mouth and dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief. “It’s pretty fine, but damn near useless. It’s the kind of so-called weapon them Nancies like to carry,” he wiped some more spittle with his filthy sleeve then used it to try to shine the pistol. “It even has a backloader. Wouldn’t want to get gunpowder all over Nancy-boy's pretty little hands! Reckon its owner must’ve had it made just for him,” he continued, examining it.