“Now, go over in that corner and sit down—no, not on the floor. Take a chair with you. I'll occupy the arsenal. You might have all kinds of push buttons, burglar alarms and deadly weapons around this desk.”
He ran his hands lightly over Carey's person in search of weapons, shoved him into the corner indicated, then turned and snapped the spring lock on the door leading out to the general office; after which he laid his gun on Carey's desk, sat down in Carey's swivel chair, tilted himself back and lifted his hob-nailed miner's boots to the top of Carey's rosewood table close by. And as he gazed, almost sorrowfully, at the land-grabber, he puffed enjoyably at Carey's cigar. Evidently he foresaw a lengthy argument and meant to make himself comfortable before proceeding.
“Well, now, Boston, since we have definitely located you as the murderer of Oliver Corblay in the Colorado desert on the night of May 17th, 188-, I'll give you five minutes to get your nerve back and then we'll get down to business. You will recall that I came here to compromise.”
He reached over and placed a brown calloused finger on the push button, and waited.
“Well” he said presently, “what's the answer!”
“Compromise” Carey managed to articulate. Bob removed his finger.
“The court will now listen to any new testimony that may be adduced in the case of The People versus Carey. Fire away, Boston.”
“What are you?” panted Carey. “A man or a devil?”
“Just a plain human being, so flat busted, Boston, that I rattle when I walk. What would you suggest to cure me of that horrible ailment?”
“Silence—on both sides—and a hundred thousand for your water right.”