“How much will you ask to let me go?”
“If you offered me ten million, which you haven’t got, I wouldn’t accept it,” Weir said, harshly. “There isn’t enough money in the world to buy your liberty. You’re going back to San Mateo, and from there to the penitentiary or to the gallows, one or the other.”
“It will be neither,” Sorenson stated.
“You’re mistaken, but I shall not argue the matter with you. Keep walking towards the horses.”
Sorenson’s lips became compressed. He glanced down at his bleeding hand, shook the blood from his fingers.
“I stay here,” said he.
Weir went a step nearer and thrust his face forward, jaw set, eyes smoldering.
“Go on, I say,” he exclaimed.
But the other did not retreat before him or indeed move at all. A sneer lifted his gray mustache.