“He pays for that,” he responded. “You hear me tell it! They’s two things to be done ’fore Murphy can foreclose on that mortgage. First, the greaser Cervantes has got to be ’tended to. Next, Jake Harper.”
“Jake ain’t what you’d exactly call a social favrite,” said Davitt dryly. “Same time, Buck, he’s considerable well known as an old boy and crippled up some. Public opinion ain’t goin’ to favor his sudden demise, none whatever.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” grunted Buck. “You and Slim and Doggy take some grub about to-morrow afternoon, and lay up the trail a ways. Jake will be ridin’ over to the Lazy S to-morrow night or next morning. You boys rope him, fetch him over here, and we’ll let him cool off a spell while we run that outfit of hisn off the range, savvy?”
“That’s good as she lays, Buck.” Sandy Davitt looked relieved. “I thought you was goin’ to remark that I might go wrastle with Cervantes, which same I ain’t got no longin’ for. Me, I got a wide sense of my limitations. Any gent what undertakes the greaser in sober earnest has got to be born real lucky, and I wasn’t.”
“Who’d you suggest?” asked Buck, a lurking devil in his eye.
“You,” said the foreman, grinning sourly. “Looks a whole lot like whoever wants the work done had ought to be able to handle some part of it his ownself, don’t it?”
Buck was lounging in his chair as this veiled insinuation was uttered. Like a streak of light, he was up and in the air. Powerful as Sandy Davitt obviously was, he was taken by the throat and laid back across the table, gasping and strangled. Holding the man’s lean throttle in one hand, Buck glared down at him.
“Some stuck up over sudden promotion, ain’t you, Sandy?” inquired Buck’s voice. “Feelin’ your oats a heap, eh? That’s twice you got sassy—ain’t goin’ to be no third time, Sandy. Or is they?”
“N-no,” gasped the half-choked man. Murphy looked on the scene with interest, his red features quite calm, a cigar between nis teeth. “Lemme up, Buck!”
Buck released his hold suddenly, and stepped back, smiling nastily.