Fyles understood the type of man he was dealing with. The half-breed was a life study of his. In the great West he was always of more interest to the police than any white man.
“We mostly wait around for the p’lice when we want to get out of business,” the man replied with meaning.
“Yes, some folks find it difficult getting out of business without the help of the police.”
“Sure,” returned Pete easily. “They need to do it right. They need to make things square.”
“For themselves?”
“Jest so—for ’emselves.”
The half-breed leaned over his horse’s shoulder and spat. Then he ostentatiously returned the gun he was holding to its holster.
“Maybe I’ll need him no more,” he said, with an obviously insincere sigh.
Fyles was quite undeceived.
“Surely—if you’re going out of business. What’s your—business?”