"Yep," muttered Lem. "Will ye bring the feller down here some day, and we'll talk it over?"
Lon acquiesced by a nod of his head, saying only, "Come on out, and let's get a drink."
"When's he goin' to git 'em—Flea and Flukey, I mean?"
"I dunno. The boy's too sick to come to court. He's liable to die any minute."
Lem started forward at the unexpected word.
"If he croaks, be ye goin' to leave Flea there?"
"Not by a damn sight! We'll git her, and I don't care if the boy goes dead afore mornin'. I only want him to suffer, and die if he wants to. And, Lem," Lon smiled evilly, and, looking into the swart face of his pal, said, "and I guess ye can make the gal come to yer likin'."
Lem's throat worked visibly, his face reddened by the silent laughter that shook him.
"I only want the chance," he said. "Come on and let's git a drink."