He crossed over to the fire and stood near Thorn, who was slouching low in his chair, his long legs stretched straight, his heels crossed before the low ashy fire that smoldered in the chimney. For a little while Chadron stood looking down on his hired scourge, a knitting of displeasure in his face, as if he waited for him to break the silence. Thorn continued his dark reverie undisturbed, it seemed, his pipestem between his fingers.
“Yes, it was his damn hired hand!” said Chadron, with profound disgust.
“That’s what I heard you say,” acknowledged Thorn, not moving his head.
“You knew it all the time; you was tryin’ to work me for the money, so you could light out!”
“I didn’t even know he had a hired hand!” Thorn drew in his legs, straightened his back, and came with considerable spirit to the defense of his evil intent.
“Well, he ain’t got none now, but he’s alive and kickin’. You’ve bungled on this job worse than an old woman. I didn’t fetch you in here to clean out hired hands and kids; we can shake a blanket and scare that kind out of the country!”
“Well, put him in at fifty then, if he was only a hired hand,” said Thorn, willing to oblige.
“When you go ahead and do what you agreed to, then we’ll talk money, and not a red till then.”
Thorn got up, unlimbering slowly, and laid the pipe on the mantel-shelf. He seemed unmoved, indifferent; apathetic as a toothless old lion. After a little silence he shook his head.