"Have you—what do you call it?—gone loco?" he asked. "I told you distinctly my search was for a copper mine. The gold lode was your own fancy. You will now apologize for that term you used."
Had one of his Navahos made the demand, Slade could not have been more amazed. He gaped, dumbfounded. Then his rage burst out again with redoubled fury. But the sight of Lennon's revolver muzzle put an abrupt end to his violent curses.
"Good enough," said Lennon. "Now my apology, if you please."
The cool politeness of the request emphasized its deadly earnestness. Lennon was keen for an excuse to shoot the big scoundrel. The look in his eye was unmistakable.
"All right," grunted Slade. "Have it your own way. I back up."
"You apologize?"
"Sure. Even a tenderfoot is entitled to that—when he gits the drop on you."
"Quite true," agreed Lennon, and he thrust the revolver into his pocket. "Now, with regard to the lode, our next step will be——"
"What'd you say you was to git from your copper company?" broke in Slade, suddenly straight-eyed and cordial.
"Twenty thousand bonus for relocating the lode, and——"