“We’ve got the proof o’ all yer surmises, Cody, right hyer in a nutshell,” Betts whispered. “Benson and Jake has been dopin’ the reds.”
He did not know how accurately the word “dope” described just what had been done.
“I figger thet I could drap that skunk Benson right frum hyer,” said Nomad, fingering his revolver. “But ’twouldn’t do. Bersides, we don’t want ter start no killin’; we want ter capter him, so’s he kin git his jest desarts at ther hands o’ ther hangman.”
“And I’d hate to see Gorilla Jake killed,” said Betts, “as it would cut me and Brother Jim out o’ that reward. Still, we might be able to perduce his body, even if he was killed; and the reward is fer him dead er alive.”
It was a characteristic of the Bettses that they kept their eyes on the main chance, and in all their clever border detective work thought more of the offered rewards than anything else. If it was a defect, it was forgiven by their friends, who knew the terrible chances they sometimes took to bring some ruffian to justice. They earned all they got.
“I don’t suppose, Cody,” said the man from Laramie, the old reckless light so often seen in his eyes flaming there once more, “that we could charge that pizen crew and get Benson and the other feller? If you say the word, I’m ready to try it.”
“We might do it!” the scout admitted.
“Wow! Then you’re willing!” and Hickok drew out his revolver.
“But I didn’t say that it would be wise to make the attempt. One or more of us might be killed, and that wouldn’t pay, you know.”
“If we charge with revolvers cracking and every man Jack of us yellin’ to beat the band those reds would run, and I know it.”