"There's a heap to be told," he said. "I'm listening."
A silence followed his words. Both men moistened their lips; neither spoke.
"Get going!" commanded Lawler.
"We was headin' south," said the small man. "We cut the fence to git through."
Lawler's eyelids flickered slightly. The heavy pistol swung upward until the dark tube gaped somberly into the small man's eyes.
"I've got loads of time, but I don't feel like wasting it," said Lawler. "You've got one minute to come clean. Keep your traps shut for that time and I bore you—both—and chuck you outside!"
His smile might have misled some men, but the small man had correctly valued Lawler.
"Gary Warden hired us to cut the fence."
The man's voice was a placative whine. His furtive eyes swept Lawler's face for signs of emotion.
There were no signs. Lawler's face might have been an expressionless mask. Not a muscle of his body moved. The offense was a monstrous one in the ethics of the country, and the fence cutter had a right to expect Lawler to exhibit passion of some kind.