Early next day Fisty and Joe Smeaton drove over to Axel’s camp. They found him in the woods, hard at it with his men, as usual. The “Wing” was the best-managed camp at Nine-Fifteen.
“Barney,” said Harrigan, taking him to one side, “I’m thinkin’ you’d like a better job.”
“Ain’t got no kick, Denny,” said Axel, eyeing Smeaton suspiciously.
“You’ve been foreman here for three years. I’m thinkin’ you’d like a change—to a better payin’ job.”
“Well, if it’s more pay—I would that,” said Axel. “What’s the job?”
Harrigan stepped close to him. “It’s lookin’ fur another one,” he said. “You kin go!”
A wolfish grin twisted Axel’s lips and Harrigan reached for his hip-pocket; but, disregarding him, the discharged foreman leaped to Smeaton and planted a smashing blow in his face. “That’s one I owe you, Joe. Stand up ag’in and I’ll pay the whole ’count and int’rest.”
Smeaton, on his knees, the blood dripping from his mouth and nose, spat out curses and incidentally a tooth or two, but he refused to stand up. Harrigan had drawn his gun and stood swinging it gently, and suggestively. Axel swung round and faced him, his eyes contemptuous as they rested on the blue gleam of the Colt.
“Got any fust-class reason for firin’ me so almighty fast?” he asked quietly.
“No,” said Harrigan, “’cept I’m t’rough wid you.”