“I’m done, I tell you,” he said querulously, as if raising the question crossed him. “Pay me for that many, and call it square.”
“Bring in Macdonald,” Chadron demanded in firm tones.
“I ain’t a-goin’ to touch him! If I keep on after that man he’ll git me—it’s on the cards, I can see it in the dark.”
“Yes, you’re lost your nerve, you old wildcat!” There was a taunt in Chadron’s voice, a sneer.
Thorn turned on him, a savage, smothered noise in his throat.
“You can say that because you owe me money, but you know it’s a damn lie! If you didn’t owe me money, I’d make you swaller it with hot lead!”
“You’re talkin’ a little too free for a man of your trade, Mark.” While Chadron’s tone was tolerant, even friendly, there was an undercurrent of warning, even threat, in his words.
“You’re the feller that’s lettin’ his gab outrun his gumption. How many does that make for me, talkin’ about nerve, how many? Do you know?”
“I don’t care how many, it lacks one of bein’ enough to suit me.”