“Yes—and scare him off!” sneered the Butcher. “There ain't but one guy that'd pick up that trail—and that's the Hawk. He's butted in enough, but he's butted in for the last time to-night! The two of us are aplenty, aren't we? Sure—cover him close on the way back—and scare him off! D'ye think he's a fool!”
“No, I don't, curse him!” retorted the Bantam. “And if I'd had my way, I'd have croaked him in broad daylight with a bullet through his bean, and finished him for keeps the minute Jack spotted him following me! Instead of that, Jack never even gets a look at his mug.”
“You're some bright guy!” grunted the Butcher. “We'd have had a hot chance making a dead man tell us where he'd planted those diamonds off the Fast Mail, not to speak of a few other little trifles the swine did us out of!”
“And you think——”
“You bet, I do!” the Butcher cut in viciously. “He'll talk to-night to save his life—and then I'll toss you, Bantam, if you like, to see who bumps him off!”
The Hawk's fingers played in a curious, caressing motion over the stock of the automatic in his hand; the twist on his lips grew a little harder, a little more merciless.
There was movement in the room now. One of the two, the Bantam undoubtedly, in growing uneasiness, was moving softly, erratically, up and down the room. It proved to be the Bantam.
“Well then, where the blazes is he!” he burst out nervously.
“Aw, shut up!” snarled the Butcher savagely for the second time.
The Bantam's shadow, as the man paced up and down, passed the doorway, repassed, and passed again.