“Have one?” he offered, holding it out to Henderson and Hartley. “No? Sorry.”
He lit a cigaret with a flourish. The old man paused in his snarling efforts to twist out of his bonds and coughed savagely, but his partner lay quiet, a scared look in his eyes.
“Now,” said the leader of the gang, “let’s rustle some grub. Here—” he stirred Henderson with his foot—“where’s the breadbox?”
“Get your foot off me!” burst out Henderson. “What kind of a game you tryin’ to pull off, anyway? Come into a man’s cabin with your hifalutin’ gabble an’ tie him up. Lemme go!”
“Will you rustle some grub if I do?”
“Not by a durn sight I won’t!” the old man roared. “I’d rustle you an’ your dirty gang to ⸺ out o’ here, if I had a gun!”
“Yeah—if,” taunted the fat man. Then, “Why ain’t you got one?” he snapped suspiciously.
“That young idiot lost it somewheres, that’s why,” gritted Henderson, while the “young idiot” gave fervent though silent thanks for his partner’s quick wit.
The fat man turned to Hartley, who shrank away.
“Well, you goin’ to act nice an’ sociable an’ cook us up some grub? We got to move on pretty quick, an’ it’ll be all for the best if you hustle about it.”