“Put my hands on him—” The lawyer’s voice was thick with emotion. “I’ve got the blasted fool between my thumb and finger now,” he said, “When I get ready, I can smash him like that!”
Sandy Larch heard the speaker’s two palms come together.
“Not while Sandy Larch is ’round, my fine liar-at-law,” he muttered under his breath. Then he heard Broome’s incredulous grunt.
“What’s got you bug-house?” the cowboy asked, and Westcott laughed.
“Do you want to know who this fine Mister Gabriel Gard really is?” He sneered, and the listener in the shed fairly held his breath to hear.
“Do you know? You said you didn’t.”
“I just happen to,” Westcott said, deliberately. “And I know he could no more file on a claim, or on anything else in this land, than that little she-ass you seem so keen to get hold of.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” Westcott’s voice was vibrant with hate.
“Because,” he repeated, “He’s a damned state-prison convict. That’s why not!”