“Very comfortable,” answered Slavens, rising stiffly. “We have nothing on our hands that common water will not wash off.”
“Oh, that nut!” depreciated Boyle. “He’d talked around for a year or two about getting me. I only beat him to it when he tried; that’s all.”
“But there was another occasion–another attempt that didn’t turn out quite like you intended,” said Slavens. “Do you remember me?”
“Yes; you’re the tin-horn doctor that held a man up in Comanche and stole the coat off of his back,” Boyle retorted with easy insolence.
Agnes looked at the doctor imploringly, plainly begging him not to provoke Boyle to another outbreak of violence. She was standing beside him, the fear and loathing which Boyle’s presence aroused undisguised in her frank face.
“It was an outrage against one of the honest men who tried to murder me,” said the doctor. “But, vicious as it was, neither Shanklin nor you, his side-partner, has ever made a squeal. If it was a holdup, why haven’t you sent one of your little sheriffs out after me?”
“I’m no partner of Hun Shanklin’s!” denied Boyle.
“Maybe you’ve parted company since the night you slugged me and nailed me up in that box for the river to hide your work.”
“I’ll make you prove that charge!” threatened Boyle hotly. 266
“I can’t prove it,” admitted the doctor. “If I could, I’d have you in court tomorrow. But you were one of them, and I want you to understand fully that I know it, and will treat you accordingly in any private dealings that may come up between you and me.”