Windrow swerved toward him, shaking his head like a maddened bull. “What is there to talk about now? The harm’s already done.”
Shayne said, “Maybe not.” His calm gaze held Windrow’s bloodshot eyes.
Strenk exclaimed, “By golly, Jasper. Wait. Don’t go off half-cocked. Remember what them fellers from Denver was tellin’ about him this mornin’? They say he’s slicker’n greased lightnin’ when it comes to a way of figurin’ out how to make hisse’f some cash money.”
“He won’t get any money from me,” Windrow growled. “His long nose has already cost us Pete’s share in the mine.” He took another step forward with knotted fists swinging.
Strenk caught his coat-tail with both hands, begging, “No need to rush things. Let him have his say. I figger mebby he’s got a proposition.”
Shayne tilted his head up at Windrow and laughed, letting smoke trail from flared nostrils. “I thought you were a businessman,” he mocked.
Windrow was breathing stertorously. He allowed Strenk to pull him back. “What kind of business have you got with me?”
Shayne said, “It would be an admirable example of civic spirit if you and Mr. Strenk each made a donation of, say, a thousand dollars for the work I’ve done investigating the death of your partner.”
Windrow’s hands clenched themselves into fists again. “If that’s all you’ve got to say—”
“Of course,” Shayne interrupted, “I might be moved by such a generous and freehearted gesture to forget about the tobacco can I dug up in Pete’s cabin last night.”