"Well—what ye goin' to do about it?" The question was put more with resignation than defiance.
Good raised his eyebrows. "Do about it? Why—what is there to do?"
"There's a bounty up," muttered the deserter savagely.
"Of course—but what of it?"
"Aw, cut that stuff! Call the con and cash in. Might as well be now as later." The words were uttered wearily, as if the speaker's strength were at a low ebb. "I'm sick o' chasin' round an' starvin'. At least I'll get my belly full in stir. Nothin' to this game. I been on the jump ever since I ... left. I knew one o' you dicks 'd get me some time. Go on—make the pinch."
"You think I'm a dick?"
"Well—ain't ye?"
"Hardly."
"Hell—I thought you was." There was no particular regret in the man's voice. He seemed to have lost any very keen interest in what fate might do with him further.
"Out of work?" asked Good, after a pause.