Grant had dropped his shovel, and now his face was almost as white as the snow beneath his feet.
“Let him come,” he begged. “He may as well have it now as any time, and it’s plain he’ll never be satisfied till he gets it.”
“There won’t be no fightin’ here,” asserted Mr. Pickle, thrusting Bern back.
“If there’s any law, I’ll make him settle!” snarled Barker. “If the law isn’t sufficient, I’ll take the matter into my own hands!”
“You’ve been piling up a right stiff account, Barker,” Rod flung back; “and on settlement day you may get all that’s coming to you in a lump sum, which possibly will be some more than you’re looking for.”
“So you refuse to come down to Lawyer Frances’ office, do ye?” questioned the deputy sheriff. “Well, you’ll be li’ble to land in the lockup when I have the warrant to serve on ye. Come on, Barker, we’ll go see Frances and fix things up. That’s the proper way to proceed, now that you’re dead sartain of your ground.”
They turned back toward the village, leaving the boy from Texas gazing after them. As their dark figures melted into the fast deepening darkness, Grant spoke in a low, hard tone.
“Yes, settlement day draws near, Mr. Barker, and when it arrives there’ll be a clean wipe-out of the account between us.”