“It is—not!” refused Garry, his voice like the scraping of a file upon rust. “I’m not in the bribe-taking game. Besides, I’d feel grand, wouldn’t I, first time the cur sneaked loose and began killing sheep again, all up and down the Valley? Nice responsibility I’d have, hey? And that’s what he’d do. Once a Killer, always a Killer. I’m clean s’prised at you for making such a crack as that! Clean s’prised! Stand clear, there! I’m going to put a stop to this Killer danger, here and now. The law will uphold me. Stand clear of him, unless you want me to take a chance at shooting him between your knees.”
He swung the rifle to his shoulder, as he spoke. Then it was that Joel Fenno came out of his brief trance of dumbness.
“You’re right,” agreed Fenno, grumpily. “The law’ll uphold you. But the law gives a owner the right to shoot his own dog, if he’s willin’ to. Royce, here, ain’t willin’ to. But I am. And I’m the cur’s joint owner.”
“Go ahead and do it then,” ordered Garry forestalling a fierce interruption from Royce Mack. “Only, cut out the blab; and do it. I got a morning’s work to catch up with. And I don’t stir from here till the dog’s dead.”
“All right!” agreed Joel; a tinge of gruff anticipation in his surly voice. “That suits me. An’ when you tell this yarn around, jes’ bear witness that one of the Dos Hermanos partners was willin’ and ready to obey the law; even if t’other one was too white-livered. Gimme the rifle. My own gun’s up to the house.”
He reached out for the weapon; and snatched, rather than accepted it, from Garry’s hands. Hefting it, and turning toward Treve, he grumbled:
“I never did get the right hang of a rifle. A pistol’s a heap handier. Got a pistol along, either of you?”
“No,” said Garry.
The foreman shook his head.