“You’re a grateful cuss,” said Rathburn, grinning.
Mannix scowled. It was plain he was not sure of his man, although he was trying to convince himself that he was.
“I don’t get you,” he said growlingly.
“No? Didn’t you hear that fellow Carlisle say I saved your life by not drawing?”
“He’d have got you if you’d tried to draw. That’s what he thought you was going to do. You saved your skin by grabbing the floor.”
Rathburn wet the paper of his cigarette and sealed the end. “I’m wondering,” he mused, as he snapped a match into flame, with a thumb nail and lit the weed.
“It’s about time,” said the deputy grimly.
“I’m wondering,” said Rathburn, in a soft voice, exhaling a thin streamer of smoke, “if he’d have got me.”
Mannix grunted, looked at him curiously, and then turned abruptly on his heel and left. Rathburn could not see the door, but he heard the big key grate in the lock, and then the jail room echoed to the clang of hard metal and the door swung shut again.