“Shucks,” said Randerson impatiently.
“Anyway,” grinned Uncle Jepson, “for some reason, he don’t want you hangin’ around. Far as I could gather, Pickett wanted some excuse to have you fire him, so’s he could shoot you. He talked some to Masten about it, an’ Masten told him to tackle Ruth, but not to get too rough about it, an’ not to go too far.”
“Great guns! The low-down, mean, sneakin’—” said Randerson. His eyes were glowing; his words came with difficulty through his straightened lips.
“Masten wouldn’t take it up, he told Pickett,” went on Uncle Jepson. “He’d put it up to you. An’ when you’d tackle Pickett about it, Pickett would shoot you. If they was any chance for Chavis to help along, he’d do it. But mostly, Pickett was to do the job. I cal’late that’s about all—except that I layed for you an’ told you to look out.”
“You heard this talk after—after Pickett had—”
“Of course,” growled Uncle Jepson, a venomous flash in his eyes, slightly reproachful.
“Sure—of course,” agreed Randerson. He was grim-eyed; there was cold contempt in the twist of his lips. He sat for a long time, silent, staring out through the door, Uncle Jepson watching him, subdued by the look in his eyes.
When he spoke at last, there was a cold, bitter humor in his voice.
“So that’s Willard’s measure!” he said. “He grades up like a side-winder slidin’ under the sagebrush. There’s nothin’ clean about him but his clothes. But he’s playin’ a game—him an’ Chavis. An’ I’m the guy they’re after!” He laughed, and Uncle Jepson shivered. “She’s seen one killin’, an’ I reckon, if she stays here a while longer, she’ll see another: Chavis’.” He stopped and then went on: “Why, I reckon Chavis dyin’ wouldn’t make no more impression on her than Pickett dyin’. But I reckon she thinks a heap of Willard, don’t she, Uncle Jep?” “If a girl promises—” began Uncle Jepson.
“I reckon—” interrupted Randerson. And then he shut his lips and looked grimly out at the horses in the corral.