“Oh, yes you will!” said Jones confidently. “You’ve only accused Beck of cheating, but you’ve proved it on yourself. The boys won’t like it. It is best to leave me thus, dear—best for you and best for me.” His eyes wandered to the window and rested calculatingly on the Fowler cottonwood across the street. It was a historic tree; Joel Fowler had been hanged thereon by disapproving friends.
The Kid caught the glance and the unspoken allusion; sweat beaded his forehead.
“Aw, lemme wait for the passenger!” he protested. “I gotta go up to the Windsor to pay what I owe and get my suit case.”
Neighbor rose.
“There, there! Don’t you fret,” he said, patting the other man’s shoulder kindly. “Give me the money. I’ll pay your bill and keep the suit case. You just run along.”
“Good lord, man! Those clothes cost me——”
“Now, now! Never mind—that’s all right—everything’s all right!” said Neighbor soothingly. “We’re just about of a size.” He nudged the Kid’s ribs with a confidential elbow. “Sly old dog! You had some of my money too, didn’t you? Yes; and I’ll keep that cunning little gun of yours as a souvenir.” The last remark came after—not before—Neighbor’s acquisition of the cunning little gun. “Come on, my boy, we’ll mosey along over to the station. Here’s our hats, on the bed.”
He linked his arm with the victim’s: he sang with a joyous and martial note:
“Hark! From the tombs a doleful sound;
Maryland, my Maryland!