"I see you know about it, all right. I'm glad of that. Seven men murdered; three thousand head of cattle gone. Mebbe they didn't all go into the quicksand—I don't know. What I do know is this: they've got to be paid for—men an' cattle. Understand? Cattle an' men."
The cold emphasis he laid on the "and" made a shiver run over the banker.
"Money will pay for cattle," went on Sanderson. "I'll collect a man for every man you killed at Devil's Hole."
He laughed in feline humor when Maison squirmed at the words.
"You think your life is more valuable than the life of any one of the men you killed at Devil's Hole, eh? Soapy was worth a hundred like you! An' Sogun—an' all the rest! Understand? They were real men, doin' some good in the world. I'm tellin' you this so you'll know that I don't think you amount to a hell of a lot, an' that I wouldn't suffer a heap with remorse if you'd open your trap for one little peep an' I'd have to blow your guts out!"
A devil of conscience had finally visited Maison—a devil in the flesh. For all the violent passions were aflame in Sanderson's face, repressed but needing only provocation to loose them.
Maison knew what impended. But he succeeded in speaking, though the words caught, stranglingly, in his throat:
"W-what do you—want?"
"Ninety thousand dollars. The market price for three thousand head of cattle."
"There isn't that much in the vaults!" protested Maison in a gasping whisper. "We never keep that amount of money on hand."