"How 'bout Tom's?"
"Tom's?" Brent looked down at him. "Oh, you just tell Tom to go to hell. That's the place for him."
"Will I tell the Cunnel's folks to go there, too?" he asked, with unintentional sagacity.
Brent hesitated; then, leaning over the saddle, put an impressive question.
"Tusk, do you want to go to hell?"
"Shucks," he spat contemptuously, "hell ain't got nothin' on a feller like me!"
"Then do you want to go to the penitentiary?"
"Fer Gawd sake," he sprang back, "what you mean?"
"Just this: You tell Tom that this blackmail has got to stop! Understand the word?—Blackmail! Let it soak in well, Tusk:—Blackmail! It's a penitentiary offense, and I'll have him up before the next Circuit Court, sure! Or better still," he declared, growing more and more angry, "I'll ride back and tell him myself!"
"Naw you don't," Tusk's hand went quickly to the bridle rein. "You don't give me the slip that a-way!"