“I don’t know, nor care. The brotherhood certainly won’t defend them. If they haven’t any money, counsel for them will be appointed by the court, I suppose, in the usual way.”
“And they’ll be railroaded to the pen, also in the usual way,” sneered Bassett. “It makes me sick the way we go back on our friends.”
“They’re not our friends,” said Simpson, sharply. “They’re the worst enemies we’ve got. We’re in no way responsible for them nor indebted to them.”
“Ain’t we?” and Bassett was on his feet again. “Where’d they git the whiskey they tanked up on afore they tackled the job? Who give it to them?”
“I don’t know—some saloon-keeper, probably.”
“No, it wasn’t no saloon-keeper,” cried Bassett, “an’ you know it. What would a saloon-keeper be givin’ away good whiskey fer? An’ more’n that, where’d they git the twenty dollars that was found on each of ’em? Did a saloon-keeper give ’em that, too?”
“Since you seem to know so much about it,” said Simpson, with ominous calmness, “suppose you tell us.”
“All right, I will tell you!” yelled Bassett, his self-control suddenly slipping from him. “Though I won’t be tellin’ you no news, for all your standin’ there lookin’ so goody-good. It’s sneaks like you an’ Jim Adams, what want t’ go crawlin’ back lickin’ the boots of the railroad, that disgusts me with the brotherhood.”
“Sneak yourself!” cried Adams, jumping to his feet and starting for Bassett, but two of his friends seized him and held him back.
“Let him come on!” shouted Bassett, fairly purple. “I’ll fix him this time—I’ve been wantin’ to fer years. Let him come on!”