“Who’s the boss?” demanded Fyles sharply.
The man’s eyes grinned cunningly.
“Why, the feller you’re going to get Monday night, with fifty gallons of good rye.”
Fyles sat up.
“Monday night?” Then he went on. “Say, why do you want to put him away?”
“Ah.”
“Well?”
Again the half-breed hesitated. Then with a sudden exclamation of impatience his desire for revenge urged him on.
“Tcha! What’s the use?” he cried fiercely. “Say, have you ever had hell smashed out of your features by a lousy dude? No. Well, I owe a bit—a hell of a bit—to some one, and I guess I don’t owe nothing in this world else but money. Debts o’ this sort I generally pay when I get the chance. You’re goin’ to give me that chance.”
Fyles had satisfied himself. The man sickened him. Now he wanted to be done with him.